


The One With The Hostile Takeover

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Ravagers [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And hinted interest in underage, And mark every chapter accordingly, Bad Things Happen To Characters I Love, Bottom Yondu, Drawn from a kink meme prompt, Graphic scenes will be entirely optional to read, I will add tags as they become appropriate, M/M, Skip at will, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This fic will contain non-con, This is what hapens when I write while stressed and frustrated from exams, i apologise in advance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:25:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4184940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rival gang of mercenaries lays a trap, and the Ravagers fly right into it. Things go from bad to worse when Peter catches the attention of the enemy captain - and then worse still. Blood, guts, and brutality galore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shit Happened

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! This is the promised midquel from my other major GotG fic, The Ravager's Guide To Getting Laid (lovingly shortened to TRGTGL). Which you totally need to read first. Absoposidefinitely. No excuses. And leave me kudos. And reviews.
> 
> ... Just kidding. You don't _technically_ need to read TRGTGL first at all. You may miss out on a couple of references, but it won't be anything vital. 
> 
> If you're looking to factor this into TRGTGL - I don't know about you, but I love my fanfics to have some level of continuity, when they're set in the same universe - it can be fitted into some indeterminable timespace between sections two and three. So that's 'Primitive R&R' and 'Terrans and Tabletops', for anyone confused by TRGTGL's admittedly wacky chapter system.
> 
> As this fic is definitely going to contain some stuff that isn't everyone's cup of tea, it's up to you whether you decide to slot this into TRGTGL canon, imagine it as a TRGTGL AU, or ignore its existence entirely. 
> 
> Happy reading. And I apologise in advance.
> 
> Additional note: I imagine Peter's somewhere in the region of eight or nine in this fic (and, coincidentally, at the start of TRGTGL). I've also just realised that that's a fair sight younger than he is at the start of the movie. But heeeey, fuck canon. Let's just roll with it.

Peter doesn’t remember until years later. 

No, that’s a lie. He remembers, alright. He remembers every detail. Even if the images are half-formed and nebulous, shaky from adrenaline and sucked of all colour but _red_ and _blue_ , and the voices jilt and shift between the roars of the furious and the screams of the dying like someone’s unsuccessfully trying to tune a radio. 

But although all five of those godawful hours have been branded to the inside of his skull (alongside various other traumas he’s undergone since he was hoiked off Terra by a bunch of hungry intergalactic space pirates), it’s always been superficial. Impressionistic. He’s never studied the scenes. Never wanted to, to be honest; after all, what more could you need to know than the basics? 

The basics are as follows. 

Stardate 5279Alpha4. 

Location: the Outworlds. 

The _Eclector_ chased a gang of Horde renegades to a forgotten cobwebbed corner of the galaxy, expecting no more resistance than whatever arsenal could be hauled by a handful of runaway rival pirates with only one ship to their name. Easy money. And a lot of it. 

Perhaps that should’ve tipped them off. A bait that honeyed’s gotta come with a trap. And indeed, it had done. 

They’d set up the _Eclector_ to orbit around a crater-pitted moon. An uninhabited system on the outskirts of Xaggarad quadrant. Typical outworlds scene; nebula hanging in the distance like gossamer curtains, wreckage of a failed satellite colony, the slow burn of a dying sun. A circlet of planets too unstable and volcanic to support more than temporary outposts. 

Half the crew had been sent planetside to start the hunt. They’d only been gone an hour before their M-ships were turned into fireworks. Guerrilla tactics, they’d assumed. Smart, but futile – _Eclector_ was twenty times the size of the chugging hangership the renegades had stolen. They could deal with the vermin problem and call home for transport, no problem. Sure, the accountant would grind his molars to ash and go bitching to captain about how they all deserved a pay-cut. But the prize for this gig outweighed the cost of a few little M-ships. All the renegades had done was piss them off. 

Only, by the time they’d finished picking the gore out of their boots, the _Eclector_ wasn’t picking up. 

It turned out that the second most prosperous gang of rascally space mercs this side of Betelgeuse had set bounties on their own, sacrificing a few rookies for the sake of luring the Ravager flagship away from her fleet. 

Bait, set. 

Prey, feasting. 

Trap, sprung. 

The Horde armada had spilled out from where they’d hidden in the star’s fluxing rad footprint, swarming around the _Eclector_ and locking enough guns on her to pulverize her in an instant. Then the captain, a Xandarian fella of the pallid brooding type who sported a full set of self-inflicted prosthetic limbs, had buzzed up on their screen and requested, with all due politeness, that he come aboard. 

It was a merger, of sorts. Outlaw style. Rather than getting laid off with a pleasant retirement package, those who didn’t make the cut were due for evisceration, mutilation, defenestration – whatever took their captors’ fancy. 

And caught their captors’ fancy Peter had. 

That had been later though. To start with, everything had been going according to plan. 

Because of course, the Ravagers weren’t going down without a fight. Outmanned, outgunned – they knew they didn’t have a prayer if they went toe-to-toe with the amassed Horde ships. But there was the saying – _cut the snake off at the head_ … And here was the enemy top dog himself, strolling into their midst to formalize his new seat as boss of a combined crew. If he wasn’t expecting a little resistance, he wasn’t right in the noggin. 

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make a pretence at cooperation. And so, Yondu had locked the Terran brat in an unremarkable little storage closet – part of a number he’d claimed a few years back to house a couple of antique EMP-grenades and the members of his trinket collection that no longer held pride of place along the edge of his control panel. Then he’s put on his best coat and gone to make nice. 

This had been protested by said Terran brat. Vocally. 

But there’s a lot of grilling, machinery, store space and walls between Peter and the main bridge. By the time Yondu’s locked the door and gotten three floors up, he can only just hear the yelling. Kraglin, of a race gifted – or cursed – with earholes a bit more sensitive than most, cocks his head when Yondu heaves himself up the ladder, and nods into the darkly-lit tunnel from whence he came. 

“That the brat?” 

“Yeah. Put him in with the old trinkets.” Yondu spares a moment to look Kraglin over. His first mate is practically vibrating. When Yondu drops a hand onto his shoulder he jerks like he’s prodded him with a Nova-issue tazer. Yondu schools his face into an easy grin. “Relax, would ya? Making me jittery just watching you.” 

Kraglin’s shivers don’t abate, but they decrease in frequency. 

“But captain, the Hordesmen…” 

“Set up a mighty pretty lil’ honeytrap. We fell for it, we gotta pay the price.” Kraglin’s thin lips are cracked from nervous licking; now they hook down at the corners. 

“You mean… we’re giving up?” he whispers, leaning in and checking round just in case the rest of the assembled crew – the Ravager High Command, as they’re informally dubbed, by pretty much everyone but themselves – are listening. He needn’t have worried. They’re all wondering the same thing anyway. 

Yondu scoffs and catches Kraglin by back of the neck. He yanks him down, banging their foreheads together in a gesture of solidarity that’s the closest he’ll come to affection while there’s crew in the room. When he speaks, it’s loud enough for them all to hear. 

“We’re Ravagers, ain’t we?” There’s a chorus of yeses. They don’t sound particularly enthusiastic. Yondu raises his voice a little more, injects it with all the sadistic glee he can muster. If they’re gonna believe this’ll work, they’ve gotta believe he believes it first. “And Ravagers don’t stop til they’re dead! So here’s what we do – we play the perfect hosts, we nod along to everything they say, and when they least expect it, we make ‘em regret that they ever thought we’d be easy fucking prey! What d’you say?” 

This time, the yeses are marginally more passionate. Yondu nods. It’ll have to do. 

“Alright. We’ve got five minutes before they dock, so let’s get to it. Listen up, folks – here’s how it’s going to go down…”


	2. Things Look Up

And go down it does. 

Brilliantly. 

“Captain of the Horde, Jakael Romago!” 

Fucker’s even got his own herald. Yondu tries not to look too unimpressed as the man stalks forward. He’s brought an entourage – about thirty men, all with teleporter bands around their wrists. That’ll make things more complicated. But heck. Complicated, fun… they’re almost synonymous when you’re in his line of work. 

“Yondu Udonta. Nice t’meet you.” He sticks out his hand. It’s ignored, in favour of the captain looking him over. His eyes seem drawn to the implant wedge driven into his skull. Yondu figures he might as well take the opportunity to do the same, and gives the man a gloss from head to toe, cataloguing the bulkiness of the mechanical limbs and the wealth of upgrades that peek out from under his sleek black uniform. Man’s a modder, anyone can see that. And a dedicated one too – obviously doesn’t care about looks so much as function, given that he’s gouged out his own eyeball to replace it with an ugly multi-function disk. Yondu’ll wager it does x-ray, thermal, night and medical scans; probably scouts the area for Nova ships and reads minds while it’s at it. But it sure doesn’t suit him. 

“Nice eyepiece,” he says. The captain looks down his nose at him – if he didn’t have mods, they’d probably be of a height. But fella’s obviously got a short complex; his prosthetic arms and legs are large in comparison with his body, elevating him above his natural stature and making him look like a hulking metal spider. 

“Your implant,” he says. “It is what allows you to control your arrow?” Okay. Weird question, as far as the getting-to-know-you game goes. But Yondu supposes he can’t fault him for wanting to know more about his weapon. He grins like he’s got nothing to hide, and raps the implant with his knuckles to get a plastic clunk. 

“In a sense.” 

“Hm.” The man looks… disappointed. “You are not Centaurian, then, after all.” 

Behind him, his crew are exchanging glances. Nope, it’s not just him who thinks this is a wee bit weird. Still, the Horde guards don’t seem to be questioning their captain’s sanity, so Yondu figures he’ll roll with it. 

“Born and bred. It ain’t the size of the crest –“ Or lack of it. “ – It’s what you do with it. Trust me, this implant wouldn’t work on anyone who didn’t have the gift to begin with.” 

It’s the truth, if a rather pared down and approximated version of it. Romago studies him a while longer, as if he’s trying to parse him down to his genes with artificial eye alone. Maybe he is. Who knows. Whatever he finds pleases him though, because he nods, and gestures that Yondu should lead the way to a suitable room. 

“Very well then, Udonta. If you would give me your ship’s schematics?” 

That’s Kraglin’s cue; Yondu nods him forwards to hand over the holopad. Ignoring the Hraxian completely – who is only too pleased to scurry back into the shadows – Romago enters the initiation sequence Yondu gives him and is treated to a small-scale three dimensional model of the Eclector, all hidey holes and boltways included. His mechanical eye sweeps it once, documenting every inch with insectoid clicks. His Xandarian one is still fixed on Yondu – effect’s eerie, but Yondu’s faced a lot worse than eerie and has still come out on top. 

“Next file’s our cargo,” he says. “Estimated price, origins and best ports of drop-off all included. After that, log of current crew. Citizenships, bounties and the like. Comms codes are next up – input them into your earpieces, and you’ll be able to access all external and internal relays throughout the ship.” 

“Very good.” Romago scrolls away, cataloguing reams of data. “You seem well prepared, for this.” 

“Ain’t our first rodeo.” They come to the saferoom door; Yondu opens it, and holds out his hand for Romago to enter. It says a lot for the captain’s certainty in his victory that he does so without question. 

“Hm.” Romago reaches the centre of the room and finishes his perusal in silence, while Yondu holds his cyclops-stare and forces himself not to shuffle his feet. When it’s done, he even offers the holopad back, nice and polite-like. Kraglin doesn’t seem keen on stepping forwards again, so Yondu takes it and passes it to where he and the Ravagers have crowded against the far wall. He and Romago stand at opposite ends of the high, broad table, one faction on one side and the other on the other. A bare light panel hangs above them, stark and bright, sucking the colour from the rust-coloured room. Clearing his throat, Romago leans forwards over the table and plants his oversized palms flat. “I hope you realise that, whatever your experience in these matters, this takeover will not be deflected.” 

Ah. Here it comes. The threat. Yondu settles his expression to neutral. 

“Go on. Give me a good reason not to whistle you through right here n’now.” Although he’s already seen the teleport bracelets. No harm in letting Romago think he’s unobservant though. Underestimation can do wonders, when you’re playing against a winning hand. 

On cue, Romago lifts his right hand up, fingers outsplayed. The metal appendage gleams slickly under the light, digits comprised of interlocking silver-black nuggets that are as flexible as those of any species with opposable thumbs, and ten times as strong. The teleporter is a cuff of bland white plastic. If it weren’t for the opal inset at its centre and the fact that every Hordesmen on board wears one identical, it could’ve been an accessory. Yondu knows better than to push his luck and play stupid now though. He lets out a low whistle, impressed – enjoying how the guards flinch back. Romago, of course, holds his ground. 

“Sweet gear,” he says, nodding at the band. “Those things’re expensive to come by.” 

“Not so much that our profits from this venture won’t cover them.” Romago lowers his arm. His fingers resettle on the tabletop, one-two-three-four, chink-chink-chink-chink. “I assume you know how they work?” 

“Yeah.” Owner presses crystal three times in succession? Sucked back to the mothership in a blaze of white light. Owner dies? Same thing happens. “They gonna fire if we send back your corpse?” 

Romago seems unconcerned at the prospect. “Indeed.” 

This is it. 

This is his chance. 

Now, while the bastard hasn’t got a good read on him, while he doesn’t know what’s in character and what’s not. Yondu’s got his hands clasped behind his back; he opens and closes his fist, pretending to be stretching his fingers while signalling for Thrabba to ready the trigger. 

“Y’know, I still ain’t convinced,” he muses. Romago raises a brow, demanding elaboration, and Yondu happily delivers. “ _Eclector_ ’s been fending off slimy bastards like you for centuries – you think her shields can’t withstand a little barrage?” He lets the open-ended question hang a moment. Then drops his voice a register, growling from the back of his throat: “I’m wondering if it might be worth calling your bluff.” 

“That,” says Romago, not flustered in the slightest, “would be a very bad idea.” 

Yondu feigns an arrogant scoff. “And why’s that then?” 

Bingo. The man puffs up. 

“Because my ships are outfitted with an arsenal stolen from the Nova militia themselves. Having studied your schematics…” he gives the holopad in Kraglin’s hands a dismissive point, “I’m afraid that we would be through your shield in seconds.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

Romago’s Xandarian eye is as cool as a glacier when he turns it on him. But Yondu imagines he can see a flicker of annoyance there. _Excellent_. “Oh, yes.” 

Yondu smirks. “Say I don’t believe you.” 

“Then I shall prove it to you.” Romalgo lifts a hand to the comms device on his chest, mechanical eye whirring as he brings up the image of the _Eclector_ ’s codes. He inputs them, shoots a quick broadcast to the rest of his crew – who obediently tap the codes into their own pieces – and then directs his voice up to the flotilla of Horde warships suspended in the aether. “A warning volley, Miss Lazgha. Along the top flank, if you please.” 

There’s a chitter of chatter as Miss Lazgha confirms. Yondu patiently counts the seconds as the charge builds. Then he shoots Thrabba a thumbs up behind his back. Thrabba, by luck or skill – probably the former – manages to detonate the tiny explosive they’d rigged to the comms circuits, just as the shots smack home. The whole ship judders and groans, like a wounded Chitauri-whale. There’s a splintering burst of feedback in Yondu’s ear. He effects a surprised flinch. 

“Shit!” 

Grim expression tinged with just the faintest hint of pleasure, Romago flicks the transmitter on his device. “Thank you, Miss Lazgha.” 

There’s no reply. 

Romago flicks it again. “Miss Lazgha.” Then again. “Miss Lazgha, report.” 

All the box picks up is static. There’s a blank moment, while the other Hordesmen and Ravagers check their equipment and find it all resoundingly useless, during which time both of Romago’s eyes, meat and mechanoid alike, latch ominously onto Yondu’s. He doesn’t break the gaze. This is it. Fly or fall. Either Romago believes his firepower’s just that superior, or he suspects that Yondu’s playing him for a fool. And if he does suspect… Well, Yondu wouldn’t bet on the man being overconfident enough to make the deception easy. He’s too smart for that. Too calculating. 

But maybe, just maybe, he can still salvage this. 

“Try the back-up relay,” he snaps at Morlug. Zqo translates it into sign language with a flutter of purple-scaled hands, because Morlug ain’t too good at reading Xandarian off people’s lips yet. She gets the message quick and hops to, nodding to show she’s understood what he’s saying... and what he’s _really_ saying. It’s better her than Thrabba, because Thrabba’s just dumb enough that he might actually fix the bloody thing and scupper their one hope at getting out of this while he’s at it. 

Morlug flips the wall panel open. She pops the screwdriver out of her utility belt, and proceeds to make a suitable mess of the circuitry within. “Anything?” That’s a circle of the hands, a crooked index to simulate the question. Morlug shakes her head and lifts her hands in a definitive x. Zqo puts it into words, succinct as ever, and more for Romago’s sake than his own - 

“No luck, boss. S’fried, alright.” 

“Damn.” Yondu turns to Romago with a growl. “Y’know, when you send a _warning shot_ , it’s usually good etiquette to not actually _break_ the fucking ship you’re firing on.” 

His sneer is returned with a placid stare. “Yet it would be common sense not to over-exaggerate the strength of your shields when you know a warning shot is about to be made. Common sense which I am well aware that you possess.” The Horde captain lets out a gushing breath. It’s echoed as air releases from the mod-valves drilled into the side of his neck. “Why, Yondu Udonta, I must admit – I had expected something cleverer.” 

Yondu tenses. His palms have been sweating for a while now, but now they’re practically dripping. He doesn’t dare wipe them on his coat – too much of a tell – but he does let his fingers brush the flap, feeling for the familiar bump of an arrowhead. 

If this goes south, if Romago twists his teleporter… 

But Romago just shakes his half-shaven head. The light glances off the metal plates he’s had inlaid in his skull. “Attempting to devalue your ship by damaging it is hardly going to dissuade me. I’m not interested in the _Eclector_ for its defensive or offensive capabilities – both of which are significantly subpar when compared to my own fleet.” 

“Still don’t stop us from pulling the biggest jobs,” someone – Horuz? – mutters from behind them. Yondu hears a scuffle of feet, a smack of fist on leather, a sulky ‘ow’. Good ol’ Kraglin. 

Romago is gentleman enough to ignore the interruption. “I’m here for one purpose and one purpose only. To prove that I can outmanoeuvre _you_.” 

Grinning, Yondu clasps a hand to his chest. “Aw! I’m flattered! Always appreciate when someone puts a bit of effort into these things, y’know.” Romago gives him the dead-eyed stare of the unimpressed. “No seriously. Congrats on getting this far.” 

“You say that as if you believe we won’t get further.” 

“You say that as if you’re surprised,” Yondu mocks back. Then grins, as if he’s trying to diffuse the tension, and leans forwards conspiratorially over the table. “C’mon, let me have my bravado. Ain’t got much else, do I? And it keeps the men happy.” 

“You care for your men,” Romago observes. Yondu’s careful not to tense up to visibly, when he sees his fleshy eye flicks over them, one by one. Horuz. Isla. Thrabba. Zqo, who’s signing for Morlug. Morlug. 

Kraglin. 

“Kinda hard to run a ship without a crew,” he points out. That disturbingly normal-looking pupil draws back in his direction, as he drums his fingers on the table edge. “They get the job done. That’s all that matters, right? Ain’t no point getting attached, when they could all be gone tomorrow.” 

“Indeed.” Romago watches his nails bounce off the scuffed metal. “Sentiment is so… _disappointing_ , in those of our calibre.” There’s something about his gaze Yondu doesn’t like, something prickly and predatory. But then Romago blinks, and the feeling’s gone. Yondu puts it from his mind. No use relying on the viscerals now. It’ll be his head that’ll get them out of this – once he figures out a way to get those damn teleportation bands off, that is. So Yondu forces a sharp grin of agreement. 

“S’what I keep telling them. Out in the void, you compromise yourself for one person, you compromise everything.” 

“Wise.” Romago considers his chrome cuticles. “I must admit to being intrigued, about how a being from a planetbound race of extinct savages came to be so.” 

There it is again. That strange… _interest_. He can tell Kraglin’s picked up on it too; there’s a soft snort at the word ‘savage’ that echoes the one in his mind. Yondu shuffles a little taller. He wants to know his bloody life story? Yondu can spin him a half-dozen yarns off the top of his head. He settles on something simple and suitably obscure. 

“Guess that’s what happens when you take a blank slate and toss it out into the universe,” he says, affecting an easy shrug. “It learns, or it breaks.” 

“Hm. How very true.” And for the first time, Romago _smiles_. It’s such an unpracticed, emotionless movement that Yondu almost mistakes it for an involuntary muscle spasm from a mod-surge. “I think I would regret killing you. Would you submit to being my second?” Yondu’s grin grows. 

“Not likely.” 

“Very well.” A slow curl of those fingers; shavings scrape from the table in metallic curls. “I am disappointed, but expected nothing less. Meegra?” 

A Skrull male steps forwards. He’s got a box tucked under one arm, a slender grey oblong. Yondu squints at it, but can’t see any markings or definitive signs on it other than the old-style mechanical lock on its hood. Romago’s eye whirls to focus on the shape of the arrow at his waist. “And now, to ensure your co operation for the rest of this process… If you would?” 

So that goes in there. Whatever material they’ve found that can block yaka-connection… that’s something. They’re certainly not unprepared. 

Yondu whistles his arrow over in a short spurt, just fast enough to make Meegra squeak. His lizard-skin arms tremble, unlatched box held away as far as he can reach. Yondu keeps the glowing weapon hovering a moment longer – then smiles, nastily, and lets it drop. The relief on Meegra’s face as the box snaps shut is palpable. Romago, though, is watching with one grey finger tracing the sparse hairs on his upper lip. 

“Whistle again,” he orders. 

Yondu, parking his ass on the table like he ain’t got a care, raises his eyebrows and does so. Then again. And again. Absolutely nothing. Not a pulse, not a glow. His implant’s as dead and silent as a powered-down M-ship, and there’s no answering rattle from inside the box neither. 

It is, not that Yondu would admit it, mildly unnerving. 

“That’s new,” he says. Romago’s smile is cold. 

“Indeed. As you can tell, I have expended considerable effort and wealth on this venture – it would be wise for your men not to underestimate that.” Yeah. This ain’t gonna be no walk in the park, that’s for sure. Yondu racks his brains, running through anything that could possibly shine a ray of light into this shithole, and draws repetitive blanks. 

Arrow, out of commission. 

Crew, on lockdown or here at gunpoint. 

Ship, outnumbered and liable to be blown to smithereens. 

Heck, the only wild card Yondu’s got up his metaphorical sleeve is one puny Terran brat, who’s about as annoying as he is useless… 

… Or perhaps not so useless as he thought. _Fucking jackpot._

Romago tilts his head back, surveying Yondu over the bridge of his aqualine nose. He has to fight to keep his expression serene as the man continues his monologue; he’s fucking jubilant on the inside, victory already in his pocket. _Yes._ It’s fucking genius – he’ll never expect; not that… 

“As for what will happen to you - we shall deliver you and your men to the Nova Corps, collecting on your bounties. Rest assured that the choice to banish a fellow captain from the aether is not made lightly.” 

It’s better than being told they’re due for execution. Yondu shrugs and says so, wondering on some abstract level whether trying too hard to look like he’s trying too hard not to look worried, will tip Romago off to the plan on his backburner by a twist of cosmic irony. The now fully formed plan. 

It seems the universe must have a bright future for him. After all, they’ve left the tools for Yondu’s success in two neatly pre-packaged bundles, in the supply closet next to Peter’s. 

Handy thing about having a deaf-mute member on the high command: everyone gets pretty damn proficient with sign language. 

_E-M-P_ , Yondu spells out behind his back. Then, in case they get the wrong idea – _small_! Shake of the fist for emphasis. Heck, but they don’t need to take out the damn life support system on top of all their other problems. _6 levels down. 2 remaining. Cupboard next to noise._ If they can’t work out what ‘noise’ is, Peter’s got less stamina than Yondu gives him credit for. Kraglin, thankfully, gets the hint immediately. 

“Uh, boss?” 

Yondu schools his face into irritation. “What? Busy here, in case you ain’t noticed.” He spots Romago out of the corner of his eye, leaning back on his heels and watching the interaction with undisguised interest. One wrong move… 

Thankfully, Kraglin plays the part of the browbeaten subordinate well: swallowing and pulling at his collar, eyes darting all over the place, before mustering up the guts to reply. 

“Mind if I take a bathroom break?” he asks. “I just, uh, I mean that this’s been dragging on a while, and ah, doc’s got me on some new meds after I took that gutshot on the Milhex job…” He trails off, gesturing helplessly at his crotch. Yondu just about manages to keep a straight face. 

“You a fucking infant, Obfonteri?” he spits. 

Kraglin’s head droops. “No, sir.” 

“You think I give two shits about your dick right now?” 

His first mate shakes his head, setting the Mohawk aquiver. “No, sir, but please –“ 

“It ain’t me you have t’ask for permission now, is it?” Yondu interrupts. Like he’s lecturing schoolchildren. Or Peter. Yes, that’s it. If he channels the aura of irascibility generated by the Terran brat’s presence, he might be able to get through this without choking on a laugh. Kraglin, a professional at this game, nods. He lifts his chin, timidly catching Romago’s eyes. 

“Sir, please; I’m on medication…” 

Romago, savvy as ever, flicks through the medical records Yondu’d given him. When he’s isolated the file with Kraglin’s surly mugshot attached, he projects it onto the table top with his mechanical eye, and gives it a rapid sift. The story holds – because it _is_ true. Kraglin’d come a cropper while dealing with sales out in the Milhex waste, and had been dragged into Doc’s surgery with a hole the size of a nickel punched through his belly, complaining that he was fine the whole time. Only thing left out of the file is that which Yondu alone knows, and that’s that Kraglin’s been pouring the sugary gunk Doc prescribed him down the drains every chance he gets, because it makes him piss like a horse and he don’t like the taste. 

Romago makes another of his double sighs, valves hissing, and waves two of his guards forwards. “Meegra. Klau. Accompany him. The nearest lavatories are…” a quick check of the maps, “… the floor below. If he attempts to go anywhere else, shoot him.” 

Yondu shakes his head. “Nah – he’ll need to head six floors down. At least.” He takes care to sound exasperated. He can’t plead dodgy plumbing – Romago would expect that to be highlighted on the map. So he settles for – “Doc keeps a stash of back-up meds there. I’m guessin’ you wouldn’t want him heading to the medbay? What with all them scalpels and such…” 

“It would be pointless to attempt resistance,” Romago is quick to remind them. He examines Kraglin critically, a new lens folding out across the metal eye like the wing of a newly-hatched fly. “But I suppose it’s safer to prevent a fool like this from being tempted, and jeopardizing our _arrangement_. Very well.” To the guards – “Take him wherever he wishes.” To Kraglin – and by definition, to the rest of them too – “But remember. If one cadaver arrives on my ship, reinforcements will dock and assume that all of your men are hostile. And if my cadaver were to appear…” 

“Boom,” Yondu finishes. Romago’s smile is sickly-satisfied. 

“Indeed. Have a safe trip.” Yondu nods to Kraglin, and Kraglin remembers to look to Romago first before considering himself dismissed. He all but scampers for the doors, the Hordesmen guards on his heels. 

Only two of them. Still, so long as the rest stay in a nice huddle, one EMP should take ‘em all out. All this means is Kraglin’s less likely to be pulverized when his new buddies realise he’s disabled their ride home. 

Not that Yondu’s _worried_ or nothing. And he wouldn’t be. Not if Romago had sent half his army. Pff. Nah. Kraglin can handle himself. Two Horde goons? They haven’t got a prayer. 

For now, Yondu’s got other things to worry about. This farce of a negotiation, for one. Space bandit merging is rarely a pretty business, but it’s always riddled with potholes, and for both sides. You can’t just take two bands of diverse folks with diverse rules, united only through a common love of taking other people’s property, and expect them all to hold hands and sing _Kum Buy Yah_ (that being another favourite of Peter’s, although he only remembers two lines). If Romago’s gonna fall for this, Yondu’s going to have to treat this like the real deal – which means he’s gonna have to haggle. 

“So,” he begins. “Once me and my main men’ve broken out the Kyln and are kickin’ again, how soon can we start up business?”


	3. Lights, EMPs, Rifles, Action

The trip below decks is uneventful. Remaining crew’s all quartered, and the few worried, pale moons of faces that peep at Kraglin and his entourage from behind locked hatches are ignored. His guards don’t register them as a threat, confident in the dissuasion of their teleport-bands. Kraglin just narrows his eyes at any he sees, willing them to stay put and not do anything stupid. 

“Down ‘ere,” he says, kicking the pressure pad for the trapdoor. It unlocks with a deepset clunk. One of his guards – Meegra? Klau? He can’t remember, and they’re indistinguishable, a Tweedledum-Tweedledee duo of Skrull twins – kneels to haul it out the way. Kraglin’s tempted to plant a boot in his back and pitch him into the gaping hole beneath. But it ain’t as far as it looks to the deck below. And anyway, they’ve got a plan. Until captain gives the word, he’ll stick to it. 

Klau – or possibly Meegra – gestures him into the pit with the barrel of his plasma rifle. Kraglin finds the first foothold, and begins the familiar downwards climb. 

“Mind your feet,” he tells them, when he’s halfway. The cramped area between floors has opened up into a brutalist pipe-lined corridor, unlit except for the dull glint of emergency beacons. “Rung here’s bit dodgy.” 

Meegra-Klau grunts something that could possibly be a thanks. They descend into the dark. 

Peter’s apparently decided to save his voice for someone who cares. Kraglin’s just glad that the EMPs are in the cupboard next door – thwarting the Terran’s inevitable bid for escape would put a serious crimp in the whole detonate-grenade-and-wrestle-guns-away-before-you-end-up-with-another-hole-in-you thing he’s got planned. He steps off the ladder, cracking his shoulders with his hands stretched over his head, and hops to one side to let Meegra-Klau and Klau-Meegra down. “Over here,” he says quietly, and lopes into the shadows. 

Ship’s eerie in lockdown. Little light. Little noise – save the constant beat of the engines, which throbs deep in the _Eclector_ ’s bowels like the pulse of a five-chambered heart, keeping their generators turning and their life-support churning with the power of the dying star. Kraglin’s internalised the sound by now. It’s less than white noise – if it weren’t there, he’d feel on edge, but he wouldn’t be able to tell you why. 

Keeping his footsteps soft – no need to alert his guards to Peter’s presence by setting him off on one, not if he doesn’t have to – he pads across the hallway and skims his fingers over the doors until he finds the locker he’s looking for. Yondu’d said he’d put Peter in with a bunch of old trinkets – not his wisest idea, if he expects to find ‘em in any state resembling whole. That leaves two cupboards to check, one on either side. Kraglin cups his hands over the dark glass and strains until his eyes ache, but finally makes out the distinct spherical mounds of two antique EMP grenades, sitting on the shelf in the right-hand locker. 

“This one,” he says. Meegra-Klau and Klau-Meegra nod. “Mind if I…?” Another nod. He’s nosed forwards with the tip of Klau-Meegra’s blaster – it seems they want to get back to their captain as soon as possible. Kraglin seconds the notion. 

He settles his fingertips on the palm-reader, which scans his prints, deems him to be of high enough rank (and in close enough cahoots with the captain) to be granted access, and opens the door in a whoosh of refrigerated air. Kraglin shivers. Hopefully the locker next door ain’t a cold-cupboard too, or else he might need to give Peter a lil’ nudge before leaving. Just in case the brat’s fallen asleep on them permanently. Still, he supposes this one’s got a reason to be cold, given that the doc has used it for med supplies in the past. Thank god their schematics aren’t completely up-to-date. 

Kraglin worms into the small, claustrophobic space, making it look like he’s getting close to read the labels on the prescription bottles – which are actually tiny boxes of spare ammunition, any gauge in the galaxy, but what his guards don’t know can’t hurt them – while also conveniently blocking their view of the EMPs. 

Now… how’s he gonna pull this off? 

Ain’t no point taking out their teleporters if they just shoot him anyway and then go blabbing to top deck. And there’s only two of the damn things, one of which will be needed for the saferoom. He’s gonna have to ace this in one try. 

Kraglin’s always liked a challenge. 

“Hey, c’mere!” he calls, beckoning the nearest guard over. “Can’t read none of these fucking things. Got a good pair of eyes on you?” 

Meegra looks at Klau. Klau looks at Meegra. Meegra pulls up his shoulders in the galaxy-wide ‘well, what’s he gonna do?’ pose. Klau nods. Klau steps forwards, into the cupboard. Klau looks over Kraglin’s shoulder, blinking at the darkness. Klau spots the EMP grenade. Klau’s mouth opens to shout… 

And Kraglin pushes the detonator, grabs the muzzle of his rifle and holds it past him nose-down towards the floor, and crouches into a ball. 

The EMP goes off, with a noise not unlike a regurgitating badoon. An angry screech rips out of Meegra – Kraglin winces; there’ll be no avoiding dealing with Quill now – and he points his gun wildly into the cranny of the locker, unable to tell which limb belongs to his brother and which to the Ravager enemy. Of course, EMPs of this age ain’t gonna knock out a plasma rifle – things are as souped-up top-notch Nova issue as the rest of the Hordesmen’s gear. But for little circuits? Earpieces? Flashlights? Teleporters? They don’t have a chance. 

Panicking, Klau makes to fire his weapon. It’s what Kraglin’s been waiting for. He grimly twists _up_ , angling the nozzle so that the edge of the shelf reflects Klau’s green frilled chin. The blast, designed to only effect biotic tissue, rebounds and smacks him right in the face. His head explodes, a geyser of green blood, and the only sound is Meegra’s agonized shrieks as he empties round after round into the locker. 

His brother’s body is shredded by the time he pauses, Kraglin still intact beneath it. Much more and the corpse’ll come apart and leave him exposed – but Kraglin’s relying on Meegra actually wanting _something_ of his twin to send off into deepspace. And that his weapon ain’t running on full juice. 

The universe is on his side. 

The seconds tick by. Then – “Come out,” Meegra calls. Kraglin grins. _Perfect_. 

He stays right where he is. 

“I said come out!” Meegra’s voice raises. He may have just lost a brother, he may be furious – but he’s a professional, and he ain’t gonna let his grief compromise him when the perpetrator’s still at large. Kraglin prises the top of the ammo-pot and waits. There’s a loud exhalation. The clump of steel-toed boots. Then the eye of a plasma rifle edges into the locker, followed by the rest of Meegra. Kraglin waits until the barrel’s about to nudge Klau’s shredded soldier. He hears Meegra’s boot lift up, about to make the next step that will carry him forwards and allow him to aim over his brother’s corpse and deliver a round directly into Kraglin’s skull. 

He flings a handful of bullets under the sole. 

Meegra’s face would be comic, if it wasn’t obscured by shadow. “Wha-?” 

Then he’s going over, stumbling backwards, arms windmilling but not finding balance. His plasma rifle goes off once, twice – the shots rebound through the corridor, getting smaller and smaller but no less deadly, before eventually dissipating into the floor grates. Kraglin holds his breath. He waits until he hears Meegra moan – then shoves Klau away in a burst of strength, staggers to his feet, and finishes Meegra with a shot from his dead brother’s rifle. He straps the last EMP to his belt, kicking aside the other’s humming carcass, and hikes the rifle over one shoulder, checking its latent charge. Ain’t much power left, but who knows. Could turn the tides a bit. 

He leaves the corpses where they lay. 

Kraglin’s got his knees through the trapdoor by the time he remembers Peter. His face scrunches in indecision. “Shit.” 

To go back, or not to go back? Peter’s Schrodinger’s Terran at the moment; without opening that cupboard, he’s got no idea how he’s faring. Which leaves him with a choice. Leave a hypothermic Terran to cough up his last while Kraglin goes to rescue captain or crew? Or face an irritating, very much alive and eager-for-freedom Terran, and somehow keep him restrained while conducting said rescue? 

Holding yourself up above ten metres of air and a hard, unforgiving floor ain’t the best place to hold an internal debate. Kraglin heaves himself out, hooks his hands around his knees, and _thinks_. 

Peter. 

Captain. 

Crew. 

One _might_ definitely die. The others at least, he know’ll be able to handle themselves five minutes longer. Yondu might smack him over the head for being slow when all this’s over and the Horde ships are eating their dust, but he’ll do a helluva lot worse if he finds Peter cold and bloodless. Even if he’d deny it. 

And _yeah, yeah,_ the kid ain’t all that bad. Sometimes. 

It’ll only take a second. Kraglin unhooks the clunky EMP and settles it next to the blaster – no sense dropping one or the other, and rendering ‘em useless – and scrambles down the ladder once again. 

Less than thirty seconds later, he’s scrambling back up, panic inscribed onto every line in his face. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

Peter ain’t dead. Peter ain’t even dying. Oh no, it’s worse than that – much, _much_ worse. 

Peter isn’t there. And when he gets back, the plasma rifle isn’t either.


	4. Peter Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up...
> 
> Peter is an idiot. Yondu is annoyed. My delightful OC villain begins to show his true colors.
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>  
> 
> **CW: hints of pedophilia from the creepy bad guy.**
> 
>  
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> 
> If anyone doesn't want to read this (or the next chapter) for triggery reasons, please notify me in the comments and I can make brief footnotes.

Negotiations are going… as well as can be expected. Yondu’s stalling for time, but without _looking_ like he’s stalling for time; he’s well aware that it ain’t gonna matter what he acquiesces to once Kraglin’s back with EMP in tow, but if he just blindsides Romago with a barrage of yeses the Horde captain’s gonna smell a rat. 

And so – the game continues. 

“M’guessin’ you’re gonna want a number of my men for yerself? Bolster your ranks, that sorta thing?” 

Romago’s flat mouth spells out the obviousness of the question. Yondu holds his hands up in deference. “Yeah, of course you do. Alright. New recruits’re probably your best bet – aint’t too loyal, or nothing. Although, y’can take yer pick, to be honest. Everyone’s only in it for the money anyway, right?” And it doesn’t matter too much which captain’s sitting at the helm. Yondu likes to think his rep’s a bit better than Romago’s though. If people are choosing between wily leather-clad mercenaries for jobs better left unspoken of, it’s his name that’s at the top of the list. Enough so that Romago’d risk flying into Novaspace to collect on his bounty. 

Yondu grins to himself. _Yeah._ He’s good. 

Heck, once he’s done here and Romago’s head’s mounted front-and-centre on his M-ship exterior, a gristly hood ornament, he’ll be even better. 

He’s just fathoming the heights his bounty’s likely to soar to after he wards off this ambush – might even see the sweet side of a million! – when the door crashes open. Expecting an EMP to come soaring through, Yondu makes ready to lunge for the box storing his arrow. He never makes it. Because no EMP arrives. 

Instead, a Terran stumbles through the gap, grinning like a loon and hefting a plasma rifle over one shoulder that’s almost as big as he is. 

A plasma rifle which is, with room for waver, pointing at Captain Romago. 

Yondu could fucking eviscerate something. Preferably something small and strawberry blonde that answers to ‘boy’, ‘Terran’, ‘Peter’, and more often than not, ‘oi, you’. 

He settles for swearing. Loudly. 

“What the fucking _fuck_ are you doin’ here, boy?” 

“Saving you!” chirps Peter. The barrel of his rifle wobbles alarmingly at the space between him and the Horde captain. His finger’s resting inside the trigger guard – _idiot!_ – and if he pulls it, hitting anything’s gonna be the last of his worries, because the rebound’ll rip off his arm. Yondu scowls. 

“Oh no you ain’t. Put that gun back where you found it. Now.” 

Peter reddens. 

“I’m trying to _help_!” 

“But you ain’t.” 

Damn. Couldn’t the brat have stayed in the cupboard? Was that really too much to ask? Sure, it weren’t exactly designed with a living creature’s comfort in mind, and _okay,_ perhaps the air inside had been a little nippier than he’d imagined, but still… 

A thousand times better in there, than out here. 

Unfortunately, wishing for the past to change’s about as useful as a chocolate rocket booster. Also unfortunately, Romago’s less interested in the weapon that’s dithering between his chest and the far wall, and more interested in the small creature behind it. 

“And what,” he asks, voice lilting with curiosity, “is this?” 

“I’m human!” says Peter proudly. 

“Terran,” Yondu corrects. The name given to any uncontacted species. Folks don’t get self-defining rights until they start travelling the galaxy – which he supposes Peter’s technically doing. But hey, he’s just a brat; he don’t count. Anyway, kid’s fun to tease. “Planet-bound from a little backwater system. Locals call their main rock ‘Earth’. You probably haven’t heard of it.” 

If anything, Romago’s smile grows. “Indeed, I have not. Boy – _Terran_ – what’s your name?” 

Peter’s surprised by the recognition – he’s used to being shoved to the side whenever Yondu’s handling business. Perhaps this guy’s not as bad as he seems. He lets the barrel of his rifle dip a little. On purpose, this time. 

“Peter,” he says. “Peter Jason Quill. Nice t’meet ya.” He can’t exactly shake the guy’s hand when he’s holding a gun on him, but it’s the thought that counts. Before he can ask for a name in return though, Yondu’s cutting in. 

“Ignore him, he ain’t nobody important.” Asshole. “Just a brat who we let tag round.” 

Peter pouts. Who was it who abducted him in the first place? 

“He ain’t gonna shoot nobody,” Yondu continues, palms upheld appeasingly. “Don’t even know how yet.” Now, that’s just tempting fate. Yondu carries on though, undaunted and uncaring, pointing at Peter with a broken blue nail. “Look, he’ll put the rifle down if I tell ‘im. Then one o’my boys can keep an eye on him while we all keep negotiatin’…” 

“Who says I can’t shoot?” Peter asks, daringly. A look from Yondu gives him his answer. He holds the rifle aloft a moment longer – but only a moment. There’s no saying no to _that_ glare. Scowling, he stomps over and drops it on the table with a clatter. 

Okay. Maybe he hasn’t had his gun-training. Yet. But really, whose fault is _that_? He’s smart, right? He’s sure he could figure it out if they gave him the chance! 

And anyway, he’s yet to see any of _them_ come up with anything better. 

Yondu seems to relax the moment barrel meets table. It’s weird, seeing him look so tense without his eyes or implant glowing – Peter guesses the box on the table and distinct lack of arrow might have something to do with that. 

“There, see?” he says to Romago. “Now, let’s get back to it…” 

But Romago is stroking his chin with a metal knuckle. “Oh no.” His eyes haven’t left Peter’s yet, metal and flesh alike. Peter, curious, cocks his head and deepens the stare. “I think I’d like to hear more about this… _Peter_.” 

Yondu snorts out a laugh. It sounds jovial. Mocking, almost; but Peter’s been interpreting Yondu’s laughter near-on five years now. He knows when it means someone’s about to die, and when things are liable to start exploding. He also recognises when it’s forced. “Really, there ain’t much to tell. Was flying by Terra on a job and the boys got hungry, so we decided to try out some local cuisine… This one amused us, so we kept ‘im.” 

That’s… not how Peter remembers it. In fact, he has the distinct impression of being called _cargo_ for a fortnight, before Yondu’d dumped a Ravager coat over his shoulders – the one he’s still growing into, which’d all but smothered him back then; perhaps that’d been the man’s intention – and started calling him _crew_ instead. He’s about to open his mouth and deliver his side of the tale, when he catches Morlug’s eye. She stares at him solemnly, and shakes her head. 

Peter’s more confused than ever. But he keeps shtum – if only because Morlug’s one of the rare crew member’s who’s never threatened to boil, roast, gut, or otherwise prepare him for consumption (and not just by dint of not being able to speak). He almost _likes_ her. 

“What’s so… _amusing_ , about him?” asks Romago. 

There’s something about the inflection on that word, as if he’s saying something without actually saying it. Peter’s young enough to pick up on that, even if he can’t say what that something is. He crooks his eyebrows at Morlug, who’s got Zqo translating, and is surprised to see that her spine’s stiffened and she looks mildly ill. Does she have space-sickness, or something? But again, she shakes her head when Peter makes to inquire. And again, Peter stays silent. He watches Yondu instead. 

Yondu’s posture’s relaxed, deceptively so. “He’s a decent singer,” he says. “Terrans like their music.” 

Peter can’t help but cut in this time. But it’s justified; if they’re discussing his talents, nobody knows them better than himself. “I dance, too!” he chirps. Then frowns as Morlug’s head shake becomes a side-to-side thrash. Even Yondu winces. Romago, however, smiles and prowls forwards. 

“Do you,” he purrs. 

Why’s everyone looking at him weird? Romago’s asked a question though; it’d be rude not to answer. “Yeah!” 

“Would you demonstrate?” 

“What, now? With them all watching?” Romago nods. Peter deflates. “I’m not so good without my music…” 

“Well. Perhaps you and I could find your music and retire elsewhere, and you could show me in private.” 

Peter’s about to tell him that’s a great idea, but he’s got no idea where Yondu’s hidden his Walkman this time – the bastard’s idea of a joke, or ‘training’ as he calls it. It occurs approximately once a month, and sure Peter’s gotten _damn_ good at finding things, but the _Eclector’s_ a big ship and he knows the crew conspire to move it when he gets warm, to prolong their week of _Ooga-chaka_ -free peace. Even if they all deny it. 

But Yondu’s stepping forwards again, and this time he’s not even pretending to be friendly. Peter’s stomach shrivels a little at the sight. Not that he’s _scared_ of the big blue bastard or anything. But he’ll admit that he can look pretty damn formidable when he wants to. 

“That’s enough,” Yondu says. His voice is flat and low; that more than anything tells Peter that Romago’s in trouble. Why, he has no idea. He sniggers to himself – perhaps Yondu’s scared Romago’ll be so impressed by Peter’s dancing that he’ll name him part of _his_ crew, and he and Peter’ll fly off into the knotty galactic nebula while Yondu’s made to walk the plank! 

Or get chucked out an airlock. However space pirates off each other. 

Romago’s gaze snaps away from Peter. “I do not think that you are in any position to be giving orders, Udonta.” 

“P’raps not. But that Terran kid ain’t gonna be much interest to you.” 

Romago licks his lips. “Oh, every rare species is of interest to me.” Even his tongue’s got a thread of metal wound through it, Peter notices with an intrigued shiver. Modded people are _so cool_. Yondu takes another step. One of the guards lifts his rifle pointedly, to aim at his chest, but Yondu glares past his head, ignoring him. 

“Yeah well. There’s seven billion more where he came from,” he tells Romago, voice rough and urgent. “He’s practically _common_. And they ain’t too far from crawling off their mudball neither – give it a decade, and everyone and their ma will have had a go at one.” 

“Hey! We’ve already had men on the moon!” Peter pipes up. If Yondu’s gonna hypothesize at the intergalactic future of the human race, he could at least get his facts right. Yondu doesn’t tell him to shut up like he normally would though. In fact, he jerks his thumb at the kid in grim satisfaction. 

“There. Y’hear that? Already on their moon. How long before they make contact with an Empire? Five years? Four?” 

Romago’s fingers chime off the metal plate set into his jaw. He tilts his head, assessing Peter from every angle like he’s examining a cut of meat. Peter, shrinking a little in his boots, is suddenly not nearly so confident; he can’t help but wonder if all he’s achieved over the past five minutes is to make yet _another_ enemy who wants to eat him. 

“But for now, a planetbound is a true delicacy…” The Horde captain’s eyes flick to Yondu; there’s something deeply unsettling about his smile, but Peter can’t put a finger on what. Yondu, for his part, is projecting an unconcern so tangible that even Peter can tell is artificial. “I would only ask for one session. Call it a… a trade agreement, if you will. The Terran, for your life and your men.” 

Damn. Because Yondu’ll totally do it, the bastard. 

Peter’s breathing picks up; he curls his toes in their thick sweat-damp socks and wishes he had his music to ground himself, distract himself, anything, as he waits for the damning words. 

_Go on then. Have fun. Don’t eat both arms; his right one’s still useful for pickpocketing._

They never come. Yondu doesn’t look at Peter once. Just keeps glowering steadily up at the Horde captain. 

“You mean you’d settle for Terran when there’s a Centaurian offering?” he asks. 

There’s a quiet noise of dissent from Zqo. Morlug makes a distressed circle between her pinkie and her thumb. Even Horuz looks disturbed. Isla’s the one to voice whatever they’re thinking, stepping forwards, two of her three hands fisted: “Captain, you can’t –“ 

“Shut up,” Yondu says. He doesn’t look at them either. “Ain’t your decision to make.” _It’s his,_ says the unspoken words. Along with the rest of the Ravagers, Peter turns to Romago. The human side of his face is petrified, like a mask cut from synth-flesh. But the verdict is written in the lens cap covering his cybernetic eye, which whirls in a sudden frenzy, the metal muscles dovetailing his pupil wide. 

He’s interested. 

Peter’s knees quiver; he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or more afraid. 

“You, for the boy,” Romago confirms. When his fingers flex, the metal knuckles groan. Yondu jerks his chin up in the affirmative, and Romago’s eye zooms, reconfigures, zooms again. “Yes,” the Horde captain breathes. His expression isn’t so much hungry as _ravenous._ “I believe that would be a fair exchange.” 

And that’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter ain't gonna be pleasant. You absolutely don't need to read it though. I'll upload a non-non-con (double negative...?) chapter next time too.


	5. It Can Only Get Better From Here (NON-CON)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE SKIP THIS CHAPTER IF NON-CONSENSUAL SEX (RAPE) IS IN ANY WAY TRIGGERING TO YOU.**  
> 
> Because that's what this is. And it's relentless and awful and the product of a hell of a lot of exam stress and rage at other issues in the author's life. Basically absolute overkill. It's also COMPLETELY SKIPPABLE. You will not miss one thing. 
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> I mean, the gist of what happens is pretty damn clear, but in case you want the footnotes: Romago rapes Yondu. There's a little eensy bit of character development in there, but honestly, that's about it. 
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> (Feel free to tell me how awful I am in the comments)

Romago passes his hand over the door panel, once to close it, twice to lock. Yondu bounces on the bed when he sits, subtly kicking one of Kraglin’s boots, left over from their last romp, into the recess beneath. He breathes in and out, and tries not to think too hard about what he’s gotten himself into. _Damn it, Peter._

If the kid could’ve stayed put. If he’d only listened, for once… Being angry at the Terran is easier than fretting about whatever bodymods Romago’s embellished with down below. Or thinking about Romago at all. Or him and Romago. In bed. His bed. His and Kraglin’s bed, three nights a week or thereabouts. 

Ah, fuck it. 

If he can’t avoid thinking about it, they might as well get this over with. Yondu, back resolutely turned on his soon-to-be partner, slips his coat off his shoulders, bundles it and tosses it to one side, and starts working on his belts. “Y’know,” he says conversationally, “this whole ‘screwing rare species’ thing’s a bit odd.” 

“Really.” There’s a whirring rasp, a zip being undrawn. Yondu refuses to look. 

“Hey, if you wanna fuck all the rare species in the galaxy be my guest… But most of ‘em ain’t exactly what you and I call _compatible_.” 

“You are,” says Romago. Heck, what Yondu wouldn’t give to sprout tentacles right now. 

His ears track the Xandarian as he steps around the bed, bare metal feet clacking on the floor. A neatly folded jacket is placed over Yondu’s coat. It’s black, sleek, fitted, where his is red and worn and cracked around the elbows. Yondu focusses on that contrast as a body settles besides him, and cold metal fingers wrap around his wrist. Romago removes his hands from the buckles with laughable ease – _damn fake mod-strength, he wouldn’t be able to lift me if he was still a scrawny Xandarian._ His thigh brushes Yondu’s and he curls an arm around his torso with a slow, pleased exhale. The teleporter winks at him with an opalline eye, like it’s reminding him of what’s at stake – as if Yondu could forget. Metal digs through the thick fabric of his shirt. 

Yondu ignores it all. He stares straight ahead as Romago takes over where he left off, picking out leather straps from between metal teeth until the belt peels apart in his hands. Yondu’s left in undershirt, pants and boots. It’s weird to feel underdressed when the other person’s already down to their boxers – which Yondu’s doing everything he can _not_ to look at. But with the way Romago touches him, so calmly possessive, it’s the only word Yondu can think of to describe it. He stays as still as he can, and bears it. Ain’t no way out, and there’s no point making this any worse. 

So when Romago takes a grip of his chin and tilts his head back, gentle but firm, to make a clinical exploration of where his implant sinks into his forehead, Yondu lets him get on with it. He traces the wonky laceration he’d accidentally cut into the ceiling when his yaka went haywire, the one Kraglin still teases him about, and imagines cutting a similar slice through the Horde captain’s chrome-patched skull. Chilly fingertips dance across his scalp, disarmingly light. They stroke the ridge in the skin where plastic’s grafted to bone, then return to it, rubbing just hard enough to make the numbed nerve endings tingle. When he scratches a steel thumbnail over one of the carvings, Yondu finds himself clutching his pant leg. 

Damn it. _Damn it._

If this had been anyone else, if this had been Kraglin… 

Not thinking about that. 

“Interesting,” Romago murmurs. His clever eyes swallow every one of Yondu’s reactions, to the slightest repressed twitch. “I will not judge you for enjoying this. There is no shame in feeling pleasure where bodies are designed to find it.” He massages over the implant again, scraping his nails in tiny, _perfect_ circles. Yondu’s grip on his pant seam turns into a painful pinch. “I am curious though – was your fin an erogenous zone also?” 

He doesn’t want to be having this conversation with him. He doesn’t want to have this conversation with _anyone_. But there’s more endangered here than his pride, or his past, or whatever else it is that he’s trying to protect. Yondu swallows and makes sure that his voice stays flippant when he answers. 

“Dunno. Too young when I lost it, I guess.” 

“A shame.” Those big, dark hands slide down, leaving cool prickles in their wake, framing the base of the implant and slipping around to cup the front of his neck. “This would’ve been preferable if you were whole.” 

“Sorry for being damaged goods,” Yondu mutters. “Can send me back if y’ve got your receipt.” 

“And take the Terran boy instead?” His silence is all the answer needed. “I thought not.” There’s a pull at his shoulder, guiding him further onto the bed. Boots and all. Kraglin’ll be pissed tomorrow. 

Yondu ends up kneeling awkwardly, stiff-shouldered and tense, while Romago settles behind him and starts drawing his shirt up his belly. His body’s warm where it’s flesh-and-blood, running hot like all Xandarians do, and frigid towards the extremities. Yondu’s distracted by that for a moment – at least until he realises that Romago’s crotch doesn’t register temperature-wise at all. 

His breathing picks up a little. So does, Romago’s, if for different reasons. 

“So it’s true,” he says, air tickling Yondu’s neck. Yondu looks down. Romago’s hands are splayed over his stomach; his thumbs dig into the edge of his pouch while his fingers trace the seam. “How… _exotic_.” 

Eugh. He shoulda fucking known. 

Romago noses at his collarbone, adding the briefest nip – which reminds him far too much of Kraglin, and Yondu can only hope that the Horde captain doesn’t notice the hickeys on his chest, or at least is too distracted by the prospect of fucking him to care. Right now, at least, he seems fixated on the pouch. 

“Have you ever used it?” 

Yondu shoots him a chilly look over one shoulder. “I look like a family man?” 

“The presence of your Terran pet suggests so.” Yondu wonders if he should bristle at that – it’s a stupid insinuation, after all; Peter ain’t _family_ , he’s _crew,_ or possibly even _cargo_. But he decides it’s best to conserve his energy. 

“I don’t got kids,” he says. Romago hums, the sound neither approving nor disapproving. He pushes Yondu’s shirt up further, bunching at his armpits. Yondu supposes he should be thankful Romago doesn’t want to look at his face. Ignoring the man’s easier when he can look straight ahead, count the stacks of potential job schematics that’ve been saved onto holopads and piled haphazardly on his desk. What’s it Peter always used to say helped him sleep? Counting ships? Perhaps, if he concentrates _really_ hard, he can just pretend none of this is happening. Might even walk away with a sorted scheme for breaking into that skrull base he’s had his eye on… 

Then Romago shoves his hand into his pouch. 

Yondu would’ve jumped a metre off the bed if he hadn’t been trapped in a circlet of solid metal arms. As it is, he has to make do with lurching forwards and making a noise like a gummed up M-engine. “Woah – woah! What the hell!” 

He tries to grapple him, but Romago’s other hand gathers his wrists and pins them together in front of his chest. When he attempts to shuffle forwards, to work his body out from around the hand rather than the other way around, Romago’s fingers curl inside him, and nails scratch the thin membrane that sits between pouch wall and innards. Yondu bows off the bed in pain. 

“Ow – ow, quit that, would you? Kinda tender in there!” 

“Stay still then,” comes the mild order. Romago doesn’t sound especially bothered by Yondu’s failed bid for freedom. He doesn’t sound especially bothered about anything; not the evident pain in his voice, not the way Yondu’s twitching uncomfortably as he tries to clamp down on the urge to bolt, to bite, to get that strange – _wrong, unnatural_ – feeling of something in his pouch that ain’t _his_ out. 

“Stop this,” he says hoarsely, after almost a full minute’s passed. He can feel Romago’s digits twitching, stretching, squeezing the muscle of his belly from the inside. “Stop. Look, you wanna fuck me, _fuck_ me, but…” 

“Don’t toy with you?” Romago suggests. He curls his hand into a fist and raises it, watching the pouch distend with unbridled interest. Yondu, feeling sick, looks away. “I’m afraid this isn’t about what you want.” 

“I get that. I geddit. But… but…” He should press his ass back against him, try to heat him up a bit – if what he’s packing is able to heat. Anything to speed this up. But Yondu’s head’s gone fuzzy; he’s breathing too quick and too shallow, and all he can think about is getting as far away from those hands as he can. 

“This really isn’t comfortable for you, is it?” Romago purrs. 

Yondu shakes his head, a bit too desperate. He receives a teasing lick to his implant, which makes conflicting senses swarm nauseatingly through him, and shies away when Romago comes down to nibble at the gold stud in his earlobe. “Okay,” whispers the Horde captain. He catches the stud between his teeth, pulling a little anyway just because he can. Then releases – and lets go of Yondu’s wrists too, sliding his hand out from his pouch in the same motion. The sudden lack of support sends him flopping face-first onto the bed. But he’s up immediately and scrambling away, putting his back to the headboard. His boots ruckle the sheets, dragging half of them after him. 

Great. Now there’s _space grime_ on the pillowcases. Peter can give them a luxury goddam hand-wash after this, seeing as technically, this is all his fault. 

Romago, meanwhile, is studying his palm with interest. It’s not wet or anything weird like that; the membrane between a Centaurian male’s stomach and their pouch is only permeable when there’s an actual brat in there, and that’ll harden up once they’re old enough to take food orally. 

That’s… about the extent Yondu knows about how it all works. All he remembers, anyway. But his mind’s not really on anatomy pop quizzes at the moment, because Romago’s lifted his hand to his face, and gives it a deep sniff before sticking a finger in his mouth. Yondu nose shrivels with disgust. 

“Seriously. What’s wrong with you?” 

Creep he might be, but thankfully Romago isn’t the type to be offended easily. “I am simply a man of interests,” he says. The spittle has smeared across his fingers, making them shinier than ever. “Come here.” 

Yondu eyes them warily. “You’re gonna need more than that, buddy.” 

“I said come here.” 

“Aw, gimme a fucking minute.” He’s feeling weird. Shaky. Like someone’s stitched electrodes under his skin. 

Romago, however, is not looking to bargain. “Here,” he says again. This time, when Yondu doesn’t comply, he crosses the distance between him – Yondu would’ve laughed, any other time; big scary captain of the Horde bouncing sternly over a mattress on his knees – grabs Yondu’s boot, and yanks him forwards. 

Yondu, of course, kicks him in the teeth. 

Romago goes sprawling. Feeling slightly dazed, Yondu pushes up onto his elbows and considers the door. But before he process the thought – or the jeopardy it’ll put ‘em all in, Peter, Kraglin, Isla and the rest – there’s a bloody, metal-eyed face looming up like a monster from the cosmic deeps, and a fist swinging towards his jaw. 

It turns out, getting punched by a guy who’s fifty percent titanium is about as much fun as running face first into a tank. 

At seventy miles per hour. 

Yondu feels his cheek split. His head snaps back on his neck, body following too slowly to avoid the agonizing crik. When he crashes down on the mattress, it’s almost a relief. Except that Romago’s there, not giving him a moment to recover, and the look in his eyes is pure _fury_ , and he punches Yondu again, this time in the temple, and again, so that pain and light splinter across his vision. 

_Looks like it’s gonna be rough after all,_ thinks Yondu. 

He’s flipped on his front, his grappling hands evaded. It should be a grim thought, that he’s about to get fucked bloody. But it’s somehow reassuring. This is about violence. Violence and anger, and pain. Yondu can deal with that. 

This is nothing, he tells himself. 

_Nothing._

Even as fingers fasten to the seat of his pants and rip. The material gives, loud even against an audial tapestry of panting breaths and creaking mechanical joints. 

“Forget oilin’ me up,” Yondu half-lasps, half-gasps, as his hips are dragged into the air. They were good trousers too – hadn’t needed to be patched once. He guesses that’s over now. A hand centres on the back of his skull, pressing down with inescapable force and mashing his bleeding face into the sheets. He has to push the next words through fabric, but it’s worth it. “You –mmf – sound like you’ve got – mmf – cyborg-fuckin’-arthritis.” 

“ _Silence_ ,” rumbles Romago. He twists one of Yondu’s arms up behind his back, as far as it should go, then a bit further. When Yondu sniggers through the pain, he releases his head to grab his own belt from the pile of clothing they’d accrued and bring it down smartly, buckle-end first, over his spine. 

“I show you respect,” he seethes, punctuating every word with a sharp lash. Yondu stops laughing after the third time the buckle gouges into him, and decides he might as well make use of the sheets by stuffing his mouth with them so he don’t end up _whimpering_ or nothing. Because _ow_. “I show you and your men mercy. I decide to give you to the Kyln rather than feeding your butchered corpses to my crew… I even leave your Terran! At your behest! And you repay me with this?” 

The blows pause. Yondu waits until he’s certain it’s not just a reprieve. Then cracks his eyes open and spits out his mouthful. 

“I dunno who taught you what _respect_ is,” he says, scathing as he can manage. “But it sure as heck don’t look like this.” 

Romago’s normal eye is a chit of volcanic glass, sharp and hard and deadly. He gives his arm a last brutal twist before releasing him and moving away. Yondu doesn’t watch as he sheds his underwear. At least, he doesn’t want to. He tries to lie still and comfortable, to catch his breath while he can – but there’s conflicting voices jabbering in his head. 

_Go on. Take a look. It’s going in whether ya want it or not; might well know what it looks like._

_But… what if it’s got spikes or something? He’s a fucking modder; who knows what freaky junk he’s packing?_

_Would you rather know now, or when it’s being rammed up yer ass?_

He supposes that’s a point. If he’s _expecting_ ridiculous agony instead of just, y’know, regular agony, maybe he’ll be able to… meditate, or something. Yondu laughs again without really meaning to. 

Yeah. Fat lot of good that’ll do. 

“What about this situation is so amusing?” 

There’s a rustle of fabric hitting the floor. A groan of springs. Then an icy palm settles on the small of Yondu’s back. It’s directly over one of the gashes from the belt, but Yondu just bites his cheeks and curls his forehead into the sheets – they smell of Kraglin, of sweat and leather and gun-grease, and it’s embarrassing how grateful he is even for that lifeline. Romago sweeps the pads of his fingers through the bloody, bruised mess, spreading the skin on either side of the wound. Yondu manages to hold his peace – until the damn bastard _licks_ it. 

His tongue rasps like sandpaper. Yondu’s not fast enough to stifle his whine in the sheets. And of _course_ Romago hears it; of course he cocks his head like a fucking dog and makes his fucking _freaky-ass smile_ again; of course he does. 

“Did you like that?” he asks, faux-innocent. Yondu forces a cackle. 

“ _Loved_ it.” Next time Romago does it, he only wrings out a gasp. Yondu squeezes his eyes until they sting. He can do this. Sadistic fucker’s just looking to make him squirm – all he’s gotta do is _not play the game_ … 

“You really do have quite the mouth on you, don’t you,” says the freak. Yondu’s back stiffens under his ministrations like the ligaments of a day-old corpse. If he’s considering what Yondu _thinks_ he’s considering… “I think I’ll fuck that first,” Romago decrees. “It’ll keep you quiet for a while. And stop you whistling for even longer.” His fingers come down, worm under Yondu’s head to run along the line of his lips as he tries to turn away. His breath mottles clouds of condensation over the metal, and when he tries to nip them all he gets is aching gums. “Oh, and I don’t recommend biting. If you value your remaining teeth.” 

Great. Absolutely fucking perfect. He’s going to get face-fucked by a giant metal dick. 

Yondu coughs out a snicker, one that’s only _slightly_ hysterical. And he was bitching about sucking Kraglin off and swallowing last time, too… 

“Well?” asks Romago, rubbing slick fingers over his tongue. “Any final words?” 

“Fugk yow,” Yondu mumbles. His teeth click off polished steel. He tastes oil. “Asshawl.” 

“I’ll get to that,” says Romago. “Now. I’m going to let you up. And you’re going to kneel.” 

“Awm I,” is his flat reply. Romago’s fingers jab painfully towards the back of his throat. 

“Yes. Because if you don’t, I shall fetch the Terran. I will make him watch as I fuck you. And then I’ll make you watch as I fuck him.” Yondu doesn’t let himself tense. But he grimaces against the sheets, forgetting that Romago’ll be able to feel it. No. He ain’t gonna let that happen – not to the boy. Not to Peter. “More sentiment,” sighs Romago, shaking his head. His fingers prise and press at Yondu’s cheeks from the inside. “Perhaps it would be more interesting if I had you fuck him instead?” 

Aw fuck. There’s just… there’s so much _wrong_ with that. 

Yondu chokes, yanking his head back to spit out Romago’s soaked digits. “No!” He coughs, leaking drool onto the sheets, wiping it messily over his mouth. “No. Not that. C’mon, I’ll do what you want. Just… just quit _messing_ with me, and you can do whatever the fuck you want. Jus’ leave the kid outta it.” 

It’s a somewhat jumbled proposition, but he thinks he gets the gist across. It still comes as a surprise when Romago's weight is removed from his back, and he’s kicked to crash unceremoniously onto the floor. 

“Kneel,” repeats the freak. Yondu, arms shaking, pushes himself to obey. 

His pants are still intact from the knee downwards. It’s fucking weird – when he sit back he can feel the soft leather and the edge of his boot heel digging into his bare ass. Still. Whatever floats Romago’s boat. He don’t wanna know whether Centaurians have the usual six toes? Yondu ain’t looking to pique his curiosity. Only thing is, he’s now unavoidably, inescapably, face-to-fucking-face with Romago’s dick. Or face-to-shaft. Head. Whatever. 

And… well, ‘formidable’ ain’t quite the word. 

Disturbing? 

Monstrous? 

Don’t get him wrong. Yondu’s had his fun – a wild sexual awakening’s pretty much a given when you run with the Ravagers. He’s taken and given alike to a varied array of genitalia, from Ashka’aan to Zen Whoberi. But this… this is a reminder of why he’s always steered clear of the modders. 

It’s… well, it’s big; enough said. Whether it was like that originally, Yondu’s got no way to tell. For now, all that matters is that it’s thick, long, shaped like the classic binary-sexed-penetrative-party model, sans foreskin, and _ribbed_. A bunch of rubbery rings cluster with increasing density from tip to base. 

Could be worse, right? 

Could be… a drill. Spiked like a Nova peacekeeping ship. 

_Yeah. Keep telling yourself that_. 

Yondu’s mouth’s gone dry all of the sudden. Real helpful. He sucks on his cheeks, trying to coax out saliva – fuck, this is gonna be hard enough already – as Romago cups the back of his skull and draws him in. Up close, his crotch smells like his fingers taste. Metal and oil. Yondu futilely licks his lips. 

“So uh, how’s it even stay up like that?” 

Romago keeps pulling forwards. Yondu’s efforts to stiffen his neck and strain away are thwarted without any seeming expenditure of effort. Fucking cyborg. Eventually, Yondu’s in far closer proximity with a modded cock than he’s any had any real desire to be – seriously, he’s practically going cross-eyes here – and Romago’s thumbs are tugging at his lips in a way that’s as distracting as it’s demeaning. “I mean, I’m guessing you don’t have blood down here?” 

“I told you,” says Romago, gripping his chin hard enough to bruise. “There’s no point in biting. Even if arteries ran through my groin, the metal epidermis is too hard for you to breach.” 

“Too hard. Uh-huh.” Hard being the operative word, by lieu of being, y’know, cast in a forge. It feels kinda redundant to make an innuendo about a dick though. The dick he’s currently eskimo-kissing. Which has a date with him at both ends. 

The fucking massive metal dick. 

_Stop stallin’_ , Yondu tells himself, giving his mental self a shake. _Yeah, it’s gonna hurt. S’gonna hurt like a bitch, but ignoring it sure as hell ain’t gonna make it go away._

“I’m getting impatient,” says Romago on cue, still in that detached, apathetic tone. Impatient means bad things. Impatient means hands in his pouch and pain and _Peter_ … 

Ain’t much room in his head for deliberation after that. Yondu takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and takes Romago down to the root. 

Okay. 

So perhaps that was a _bit_ ambitious. He gets about halfway there before he chokes. Ain’t like he’s never done this before, but (no offence to Kraglin) it’s usually on a smaller model. And there ain’t no weird ridges sitting heavy on the top of his windpipe, and it don’t taste of chrome and fucking engine-lubricant, and he actually _wants_ to do this, no matter how much he bitches about it, as opposed to being forced unerringly forwards by the hand wrapped around the back of his head. Romago scratches his crown, rewardingly, like he’s a fucking _pet_. 

“Good,” he says. Eases Yondu down another centimetre, ignoring the sounds of gagging – and fuck, fuck, he’s gonna throw up, and there ain’t none of them who want that. Thankfully, the panicked scrabble of blue fingers over the welded metal of his thighs gets Romago’s attention. “Too much? A shame.” He slides Yondu back though, until just the head’s caught between his stretched, aching lips. 

_No whistlin’ for a while, he said._ Yondu gulps down ragged breath after ragged breath. _Fucker was right about that._ His throat contracts painfully under Romago’s soothing hands. 

It’s not much of a rest though. Yondu gets approximately ten seconds before his mouth’s full again, this time with Romago holding his head stationary and pushing his hips forwards. He goes deep, almost to the point that had Yondu retching. Then – to Yondu’s eternal relief – works a hand down between them to rub his uncovered inches, and jerks back and forth in relatively shallow thrusts. 

Okay. This is… okay. Sore, humiliating, infuriating… but okay. 

Better than the alternative. Anything’s better than that. 

Yondu lets his eyes drift shut. He relaxes his throat as much as he can, head rolling on his shoulders and arms hanging limp by his sides as Romago fucks his face. Breathing’s a luxury. Swallowing’s a luxury. Feeling like he’s not about to spill his guts any second’s _definitely_ a fucking luxury, but Yondu’s somewhat reassured that Romago’d stopped before. Whatever kinks this creepy fucker might have, he doesn’t think getting his crotch drenched in Centaurian-puke is one of them. 

“Not terrible, I suppose,” Romago commends, when Yondu manages to curl his tongue and drag it over the ridged underside. Whoopee. Gold fucking star for him. For a moment, Yondu entertains the hope that he can get Romago off like this – but his ‘not terrible’ evidently isn’t especially spectacular either. Romago knuckles his bruised cheek, not pausing in his gentle rocking but encouraging him to look up at him. 

“Finger yourself,” he says. Then, when Yondu makes to burble out a denial – “It’s the only preparation you’re getting, so you’d best make it worth something.” 

Aw _heck_. 

It ain’t the best angle, that’s for sure. But Yondu’s not gonna reject the offer. He reaches behind and arches his back, tucking his fingers into the cleft of his ass. Then remembers they’re completely dry. Attempting to pull off only earns him a harder, throat-busting thrust – Yondu tastes blood, and is hit with the sudden concern that a cock made of metal could probably bludgeon right through any resistance it found, grievous internal injuries be damned – so he waves to get Romago’s attention. 

_Hi? Yeah, down here, the guy suckin’ you off. Remember me?_

Romago’s smart enough to understand his problem. He sighs extravagantly, like he’s doing Yondu a massive favour for not just turning him over and screwing him raw there and then. …Which, thinking about it, he kinda is. He extracts himself, fast enough that one of Yondu’s capped canines scratches his cock’s shiny surface – he tastes sparks – and turns to appraise the messy room. 

“These are your quarters. I’m assuming you keep lubrication somewhere?” He assumes rightly. 

“First wall drawer,” Yondu rasps. “On th’left.” 

Words hurt. Xandarian already scratches his throat like a virus. Last thing he needs is being made any hoarser than he is already. But it ain’t like Romago’ll understand him if he starts clicking – heck, who knows what he’d do then? Probably dissect him to get a good look at his vocal cords. Freak. 

Romago gracefully lopes to where Yondu has indicated. The synthetic fibre muscles that join metal legs to skin torso, shift in perfect harmony. The drawer ain’t coded – Yondu’s got other places, less obvious places, for storing his valuables. It slides out of the wall as soon as Romago prods the pressure pad. He plucks out the bottle – damn, why didn’t Yondu keep any of the numbing stuff? When he returns, he drops it between Yondu’s knees. 

“Go on then. Wet yourself up.” Somebody’s not a romantic. 

“Mind if I jerk off a bit too?” Because heaven knows, he might as well get _something_ out of this. 

Romago shrugs. “Be my guest.” How generous of him. 

Yondu squeezes out a hearty dollup and rubs it until he’s got one coated set of fingers and a pleasantly slippery palm. Romago is watching, although the look on his face is more scientific curiosity than lust. _Freak_. Yondu ignores him, rubbing over the tight furl of his asshole. It’s tempting to draw this out, take his time – heaven knows he’s not going to be having nearly as much fun when Romago gets down to business. But he also doesn’t know how long the Horde captain’s patience is going to last. 

The thought of that cock coming anywhere near him before he’s loose enough to fucking _fist_ , is enough motivation to speed things up a bit. 

Yondu goes in with two fingers – quick but efficient. He’s no newbie at this; he has fuck-days and be-fucked days, and an eager little first mate who’ll get him off in any way Yondu demands. Even in some ways he ain’t _heard_ of. So he’s up to three-and-a-bit fingers fairly quickly, massaging and scissoring at his inner walls, willing ‘em to relax more than anything. Takes a bit longer to get his cock up – but it does, nowadays (shut up). Anyway, ain’t like he’s got the bedmate of his dreams. Still, up he gets. 

That, Romago does look at with interest. “Blue blood. Like a Kree.” Yondu doesn’t bother to ask if he’s fucked some of them too – man’s a bloody sex tourist; if Centaurians and Terrans are the only members of Yondu’s crew he’d picked out as worthy of attention, he must’ve worked his way round half the fucking galaxy. 

With that in mind, Yondu sure hopes cyborgs can’t catch STIs. 

“Nah. Mine’s lighter.” He circles his thumb round the head of his dick, shamelessly presenting it to Romago’s like he’s at show-and-tell. “See? Theirs go black. Kinda freaky. Y’know, first time I fucked a Kree gal, I thought she’d got gangrene or something?” 

Romago’s lip curls back. “You may have an advanced mind for a savage, but it is truly filthy.” 

“What? It were an honest mistake!” Yondu jerks his hips forwards; bites his lip and channels air through his nose as he circles his prostate. It’s kinda hard to reach from this angle, but he does his best. “And hey, uh, talking of necrosified bits…” There’s that grimace again. Delightful, just delightful. “You take any venereal vaccs recently? Like, uh, not to be intrusive or nothing, but if we’re goin’ in bareback…” 

Romago cuts him off. “Even if I was contaminated, you wouldn’t stop me.” 

“Maybe not, maybe not.” Yondu flexes his thighs, sinking back on his fingers until his wrist twinges. “But at least I’d know to get a check-up after.” 

“True.” Romago fists his cock in time to the wet squelch of Yondu’s hand where it pumps against his ass. It’s still hard, Yondu notices. Very hard. Mostly by dint of being forged from fucking vibranium, or something of that ilk. 

Also very big. 

He’s been hoping that after a bit of time to become acquainted, it wouldn’t seem as… _daunting_. He’s been wrong. “You shall be pleased to hear that I am clean.” As pleased as one could be, in this situation. “I am also done waiting. Are you ready?” 

Yondu considers saying no, just to see what he’ll do. Then decides it’s probably best not to find out. 

He tugs his fingers free – they leave with a slurp, obscenely loud in the silence – and winces as cool air meets tender skin. A glob of lube rolls out when he climbs up and walks to the bed, smearing between his cheeks. It’s warm and sticky. Yondu feels as loose as he’s gonna get. And hey, there’s no time like the present, right? 

Taking a deep breath, he crawls forwards on hands and knees, and presents the captain with his ass. “All yours,” he says. Cool fingertips linger over flesh. They’re not quite touching, but hover near enough to steal his heat. 

“Indeed,” Romago murmurs. 

Yondu hears him creak close, feels the brush of breath across the raised welts that stud his spine. Romago pulls up and positions himself. His cockhead feels like the tip of a battering ram. He’s barely pressing forwards and it’s already tugging at his rim. 

Shit, shit, _shit shit shit_. 

_Just relax,_ Yondu imagines Kraglin telling him, as he shoves a pillow under his hips – fuck, he doubts he’ll be holding himself up for long – and finds another one to bite. _Just breathe, nice and slow. Yeah, that’s it._

He’s doing fine. 

This is all gonna be fine. 

They’re gonna walk out of this room – well, one of them is; Yondu suspects he’s not gonna be doing much walking for a few days. (Or standing, for that matter. Or sitting.) Kraglin’s gonna be waiting with a grin and an EMP. They’re gonna blast every last one of these Hordesmen fuckers to hell. Then they’ll pick up the boys stranded planetside, accelerate into hyperspace before the Horde armada realises their captain’s kicked the can, and be back with the fleet before breakfast. 

Heck, he can think up some suitably inventive punishment for Quill along the way. Not just scrubbing the bogs, neither. Oh no. Boy deserves something big after this stunt, something special… Maybe he’ll use him as bait for the next job. Maybe he’ll partner him with Horuz. So many possibilities… 

And Yondu doesn’t get a second more to consider them all. Because the next moment, metal hands encase his hips and that’s all the warning he gets before Romago batters in. 

It all goes to hell. 

Breathing pattern. 

Mantras of insults he’ll be yelling at Quill once they’re through. 

All fracture and fragments into one thing: an all-consuming, devastating actuality of _pain_. 

Yondu’s not ready for this. Not by a long shot. He’d barely had half a minute to get up to three fingers, and now his asshole’s clenching desperately as it attempts to stop the relentless slide of dick. 

And relentless it is. Romago squeezes the lube tube, rubbing pearly slick along the length of his cock until everything’s all nice and shiny, then squirts it over Yondu and works it into him in short, powerful thrusts. Each rubber circlet stretches him a millimetre wider. Romago breaches the inner ring with a pop that replaces Yondu’s limbs with bags of jelly, and after that there’s no hesitation, no pauses for air. One firm thrust and he’s in, _all_ the way in, deeper than Yondu’s taken pretty much anything. 

_Fuck_. 

It hurts. 

From his pelvis to his stomach, to his jaw from clenching his teeth so tight. Yondu belatedly realises that he’s ripped a hole in Kraglin’s favourite pillow. 

_Double fuck._

However, the ginormous cock splitting him in half takes priority over his mental faculties at that moment. He’ll have to apologise later. Treat him to dinner… Somewhere nice. 

And damn it all, _damn it_ , he’s not gonna start _crying_ because he started thinking about taking Kraglin on a _date_ while being fucked by an insane Horde captain. Oh fuck no. It’s not happening. What’s it he kept telling Peter, back when the brat was still keeping them up half the night cycle with his wails? 

_Ravagers don’t cry._

Yondu scrunches up his face until he’s one hundred percent positive not a single tear’s gonna make a bid for freedom. Then sputters out a spitty gasp as his ass ripples around the final five, tight-packed ridges, and the chilly base of the cock settles home. 

It’s done. It’s all in – he can’t quite believe it, but it is. 

He’s almost glad for the coldness of the metal. S’weird and uncomfortable, but it least it numbs him somewhat. From ‘blazing agony’ to ‘stippling sting’; but better than nothing, right? 

“Now this,” grunts Romago, one hand pinning his lower half, the other a frigid collar on the back of Yondu’s neck, “this is _much_ better. I could do this all day.” He pulls out – oh _fuck_ that cains – and thrusts back in, smooth and gut-piercingly deep, to emphasise. Yondu bounces his forehead off the mattress. He can feel sweat gathering under Romago’s palm, sliding along his collarbone. 

“I – I’d really, uh, rather you didn’t.” His voice is not shaking. It is not. 

The hand on his neck creeps up to fondle his implant, as if Romago’s making an attempt at soothing, at comfort. The touch doesn’t feel good any more though. Just a lesser ache, marooned in a sea of much greater ones. It’s as if Yondu’s been oversensitized, electrified, his body transformed into a bundle of raw nerves. 

The cock in his ass is heavy, foreign. An intruding, impaling presence that he can’t escape. The ribbing rubs him over like it’s trying to weather him away. He feels ridiculously full, liable to burst at the seams, and the taste of stomach acid is rising up the back of his throat again. He swallows it, throat clicking, and it burns all the way down too. 

“You’re doing very well,” Romago croons. “There’s not many who can take me, not even like this.” 

Yondu sniffs into his pillow, fingers curling around the casing’s loose corners. “I live to fucking please,” he grunts. 

“And you do. Immensely.” The hands squeeze his biceps and trace down his sides. They’re even kind enough to avoid the worst of the gashes. They settle on his ass, pulling apart the cheeks so that Romago can admire his ridiculous cock – and he must be compensating for _something,_ although Yondu’s not sure what – as it slides in and out of its new blue sheathe. “I truly never believed I would have opportunity to bed a Centaurian.” 

“Yeah, I bet you’ll tell – ah – your g-grandkids about this day.” 

How long does it take a man with metal balls to get off? Please, please, let him be an early finisher. Yondu won’t even mock him for it, if he’ll only _take it out_. 

“Hm. I’d settle for our combined crews.” His thrusts pick up pace. Yondu bites his tongue until his lips leak blue as he’s slammed forwards. His stomach clenches again, and this time Yondu doesn’t swallow until the taste fills his mouth, sour and acidic. 

The _fuck_ he will. 

Yondu’s gonna destroy him. Decimate him. Decapitate him (and yes, he does mean _both_ heads). 

The headboard clatters of the wall. Rhythmical and hard. _Bang, bang, bang._ Walls of the captain’s cabin are pretty thick, but Yondu knows anyone unlucky enough to be walking by will leave with no illusions about what’s going on. He’s just glad he’d had the sense to confine crew to quarters until this mess was sorted out. Once the Hordesmen are dead, that just leaves the High Command to threaten into silence – and those of them who he don’t trust (those of them who he _trusts less than the others_ , he supposes he should say) can always be blackmailed or bribed. 

One thing’s for sure. This don’t get out. Anyone asks, he got in a fight. A darn _amazing_ fight. With a bilgesnipe. Tusks and all. 

_Bang, bang, bang._

Yondu’s driven forwards over his pillow; Romago pauses only momentarily to hike him back into a fuckable position, gripping his waist to keep him steady, before he resumes his fierce pace. He ploughs into Yondu like he’s one of ‘em lifesize customisable sexbots they sell at the kinkier shops on Knowhere. Who knows? Freak probably has a couple. Named after near-extinct species too, no doubt. Although his Centaurian’d have a fin. 

Yondu tries to distract himself, tries to take his mind far away. Other people. Other places. But it doesn’t work. There’s simply too _much_. Too much presence. Too much cock. Not enough _air_. 

His lungs are burning and his nose is clogged, but every time he opens his mouth to take a breath he makes this awful, whining noise, like a dying animal. It seems to excite Romago – of course it does. His abdomen tenses, and he delivers a series of stingingly fast thrusts, each one feeling like it’s punching its imprint into Yondu’s entrails. 

He lets go of his waist – Yondu immediately collapses flat, but Romago just moves over him to compensate, pounding _down_ like he’s mining for fucking oil. Five strong fingers wrap around his neck, slowly compressing his airways until his throat feels like it’s rubbing itself. Then Yondu finds out what it’s _really_ like not to breathe. 

In the end, the only thought that worms through the mess of agony is giddy gratitude that Peter’s not the one lying here. 

He doesn’t know how long it is before Romago’s thrusts lose their strict tempo. He’s practically delirious by then anyway, brain swimming from lack of oxygen, vision wavering in and out. He can’t tell if he’s losing consciousness or if his eyes just keep rolling back into his head. But he feels it when the rhythm judders. He hears it when Romago starts to make his own noises; high-pitched feral growls and animal-grunts. 

He definitely feels it when Romago spills. It’s an orgasm that goes on and on, seemingly for hours. When Yondu’s overflowing, he pulls out and spurts the last of it over his blistered back, painting stinging murals in white and blue. 

“Oh,” he breathes, voice throaty and blissful. “Oh, _yes_.” 

_Oh yes,_ Yondu thinks. _It’s over._

He feels like he’s been steamrolled. It’s so tempting to lay here, to edge a corner of the sheet over him and bury his face in Kraglin’s pillow and wait until the world stops spinning before dragging himself up to face it. Romago stays collapsed on top of him, his strange, underweight ribcage grating his flayed back. Yondu can’t even be bothered to wince. There’s no cock inside him. He’s done. It’s _finished_. 

Oh, he can still feel it alright. Kinda hard to miss. It’s sticky and strange, resting between his buttocks. Romago’s a boneless weight over him, his metal arms and legs shackling him like frost-heavy chains. Yondu’s just thankful that his cock’s warmed up a bit – although that’s just from friction, and Yondu’s own body heat. The ridges slip over his stretched entrance when Romago shifts, and Yondu shudders like he’s caught a fever. It’s firmer than any flaccid flesh Yondu’s come across, but – he hopes – not stiff enough for another round. So long as it _stays_ that way, Yondu figures he can deal with the reminder a while longer. 

“You done?” he croaks, once he deems the Xandarian’s had enough to time to recover, but not a full refractory period. Heaven knows, he don’t want to tempt fate. Romago’s fingers curl against his nape. 

“For now,” he pants, into the skin. 

His other hand slithers down, cool and wet, drenched with Yondu’s sweat and residual lubricant, and delves between them to slot three digits into his loose body. Yondu squirms, curses under his breath and tries to wriggle away. But Romago shushes him, like a fucking kid. He squelches his fingers deep into the froth of blood and lube and come he’s left behind. The movements are slow and leisurely, almost like Romago’s trying to get him off – as if that’d make up for this, for anything. Yondu just shudders and clicks to himself. Then regrets it as the scratching foreign tongue encourages Romago to probe him deeper, to rub his thumb back and forth over the tight, sensitive skin behind Yondu’s balls and curl his fingers on the upstroke. 

“Stop,” he gasps, in Xandarian this time, when Romago circles his prostate. “Stop, hurts too much.” 

Romago looks surprised. “Really?” 

“Yeah, t-tends to happen when you’ve been fucked by a comically humungous cock.” There’s another firm press, as if Romago’s testing him to see for himself. Yondu clicks again, unhappily, and tries to kick him away. His boot heel bounces off a metal thigh. “M’serious.” 

Romago’s lips thin in his peripherals. But he removes the fingers. “Very well.” When they’re presented before his face, Yondu has to shut his eyes to quell the nausea. 

“Hell no,” he says. And means it. “I will fucking barf.” 

They get wiped on his shoulder instead. Somewhat vindictively – so Yondu assumes – Romago sweeps them right over one of the scoured lines that he carved with his belt buckle. He doesn’t retreat any further though, or make any move to retrieve his folded pile of clothing. Instead, he heaves Yondu onto his side, snuggles up tight behind him, and rests one weighty arm over his side. 

Yondu swallows bile. 

“You leaving, or what?” He’s had what came for. All Yondu wants is to curl up and _ache_ in peace. 

“Is it customary for a Centaurian to abandon their bedfellow right after the act?” 

If that’ll get him away… “Yes.” And then, just because it’s true – “Although you ain’t Centaurian, so I don’t see how it matters.” The arm tossed over him squeezes in, just a little. Enough to remind Yondu of its crushing potential. 

“True,” says Romago, voice bland. “I am merely Xanderian. The fifth most prevalent species in the galaxy. Second in the Nova empire. Mundane. Common.” 

Yondu shoots him a look, somewhere between pained and sceptical. “Fuck, you’ve got issues.” 

“And you were even more entertaining than I had hoped.” His index skims the edge of Yondu’s pouch. “Perhaps I shan’t give you to the Nova. I think I would rather keep you – yes. You and the Terran both.” Another fucking collector. Just what this Galaxy don’t need. Heck, Yondu’ll be doing the universe a favour if he kills him. 

_When_ he kills him. 

Which he will. As soon as he no longer feels like he’s made of lead and bruises, or else his arrow’s back online. 

“You said you’d fuck me _instead_ of the Terran,” he tries to haggle, but shuts up when the tip of the finger wriggles warningly under the flap of tough blue skin. It doesn’t retreat, a cool sliver of ice that constantly teases violation. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t necessarily fuck him,” says Romago breezily, stroking up and down the long slit. “I doubt he’d last long if I did.” Well… he ain’t wrong there. Yondu’s still mildly disturbed that he survived without rupturing anything serious. 

It don’t matter what the bastard says though, right? He ain’t leaving this ship. He can talk all the smack about him and Peter that he wants. 

“What’d you do with him, then?” he asks anyway, because Romago talking is Romago distracted – at least partially – from playing with his body. “I’ve dealt with the brat a coupla years now, and he ain’t gonna be no one’s pet without a fight.” 

Romago’s shrug is carefree. “Chain him up, I suppose. Build him a cage. Terran’s do not require much in the way of sustenance, do they?” 

“No more than most.” 

“Well then.” He sounds inordinately pleased. “There you go. I shall keep him in my office as I lead our united force across the galaxy.” A pause. “And you in my bed, of course.” Yondu rolls his eyes. 

“What an honour.” _Freak_. 

“Yes. Well…” And the hand starts to creep lower. “If you’re to take my cock on a regular basis, I suppose you’ll be in need of more practice…” 

And fuck no, oh fuck no. 

Yondu’s boots drag helplessly over the sheets as Romago lifts one of his legs, hooking him under the knee and tucking his thigh back so he can slot between them. 

_Fuck no._

He can’t, he can’t deal with this, he can’t handle it again, no, _no_ … 

That’s when his crest crackles to life. 

Yondu tries to whistle before his mind’s even processed what’s happening, before the elation even hits – his arrow’s back, he can fight, he can _feel_ again. But his lips are cracked and broken and nothing comes out but a reedy whistle of air. 

“You’re being so good for me,” Romago tells him. Then trails off, as Yondu’s crest flares in a desperate pulse. 

Come on. _Come on._

Romago realises what’s happening, as Yondu rasps his dry tongue over his lips and mangles a short trill. There’s a burst of recognition, a sensation of _movement_ …Then a palm claps over his mouth, sour with the reek of metal-biotic ejaculate. 

Biting it’s useless, but Yondu manages to wrench his head away. He whistles once – just once. 

That’s all it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering – in this series, the Centaurians were a planet-bound race with no Empire contact, living in the present day rather than the future. They were wiped out by the Badoon - with the exception of a couple of lucky folks who happened to have been abducted previously. There was no Vance Astro or human settlement involved.
> 
> I’ve actually got a bit of a backstory planned out where Yondu managed to accidentally stow away on a Ravager smuggling vessel as a kid, when it hid on Centauri-IV to avoid Nova patrols. I’ll have to write it sometime. It’ll probably be the only damn T-rated thing I contribute to this fandom. Because I am utter filth (as this chapter unequivocally proves).


	6. Meanwhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the title suggests...
> 
>  
> 
> **TW: mentions of pedophilia**

Worst part of any plan ain’t the devilling out of the details, nor the inevitable round-up of corpses after all’s been said, done, and shot. Worst part of a plan’s the goddamn _waiting_. 

Kraglin’s a schemer – stuck in a grind, he’ll keep churning out new ideas. It don’t matter if half are naff and the other half depends on gravity miraculously inverting at _just_ the right moment; he’ll keep coming up with ‘em until the problem goes away or the whole damn ship explodes. But more than that: he’s a _doer_. He follows orders. He gives orders, when it’s necessary. He does his job. He cracks spines and lifts merchandise and threatens and haggles his way through the densest Hraxian markets; he snaps fingers and digs out bullet slugs and sniffs out anyone who’s got a bad word to say against the boss, then deals with ‘em so boss don’t have to. 

Sitting around and waiting is more than just _dull_. It’s fucking _antithetical_ to his fucking _being_. 

Or something like that. 

But sometimes – and even Kraglin can’t deny it – waiting’s the only thing you can do. Opportune moment. That’s what Yondu’s been drilling him to look for, while Kraglin’d rather shoot first and _observe_ later. And he’s fairly certain that this scene, the Ravager High Command shuffling their feet in the corner with their hands raised over their heads while Peter dangles in the arms of a burly Horde lass, isn’t it. 

“Fucking hell, brat,” he mutters under his breath. “You’d better get double-bog duty for this.” 

The last remaining EMP grenade is a clunky dumbbell, strapped over his left hip. Kraglin strokes it unconsciously, picking at the wiring until he catches himself. Then he yanks his hand away before he can trigger the damn thing and make a shit situation that much shitter. Heck, Yondu’d never let him hear the end of it if he did that. Speaking of… Where is the captain? 

Kraglin elongates his neck; peeks through the stained yellow glass of the door porthole and conducts a rapid scan. 

Nope. No Yondu. And no captain of the Horde either. 

Kraglin thunks his skull off the doorframe – lightly, he don’t want to be giving himself away – and cusses to himself. Fucking _great_. Yondu has to derail his own goddam plot by treating that _Romago_ creep to a private tour? Smacking his knee in lieu of being able to take his frustration out on anything louder, Kraglin dismisses that thought. Nah. Captain wouldn’t have separated Romago from his crew, not when he knew Kraglin was on his way with a trump-card. Not unless he’d had no choice. 

Which means it’s up to Kraglin now, to improvise. 

Thinking about it, Romago’s absence doesn’t actually sabotage them too much – they’ve still got the remaining fifteen Hordesmen soldiers in one place, all within the easy reach of a single EMP nodule. Kraglin tosses the grenade and picks ‘em off in the confusion, then they jump Romago before his modded brain can process the words _fuck, you_ and _a-hole_. All they gotta do is disable the teleporter before they off him. Six on one. Seven, if the captain’s there. He won’t stand a chance. 

Kraglin’s grinning just thinking about it. Smarmy freak deserves everything that’s coming to him. 

It’s a shame really, that such a good plan’s got a wrench in its works. A wrench that’s about four feet tall, dressed in a Ravager coat three sizes too ambitious, and is, from the rabid snarl twisting up the Hordegirl’s face, already talking himself into an early grave. Heck, Kraglin’s tempted to let him get on with it. It’d make life a lot easier, that’s for sure. 

But also, admittedly, a lot more boring. 

Not that he’d _miss_ the brat or anything. However, it’s not everyone who’s got the guts to barter with Zqo and Morlug for their M-ship codes when he still ain’t cleared to fly, or pack Horuz’s favourite gun with glitter confetti on a semi-regular basis. Or speak back to Yondu. Kraglin’s not sure which of those traits he values more. But one thing’s for sure – all are pretty much Peter-specific. Lose him, and employment on the _Eclector_ loses a good quarter of its entertainment value (the other three being comprised equally of explosions, high-speed space pursuits, and the captain). 

And more importantly still – there’s eleven plasma rifles trained on his fellow crewmen. If he rolls the grenade in there now, they won’t stand a fucking prayer. 

There’s not much he can do though. Not from out here. And it’s frustrating and unsatisfying and it’s making his leg jiggle up and down in impatience like it’s the head of one of those wobbly trinkets Yondu keeps propped on his dash. Even if he sets a distraction, it ain’t like all of them will tramp off together to see what it’s about. He’ll just separate the group and make his job harder. Nope, Kraglin’s going to have to do this the long way. 

Universe’s pretty damn mutable, right? Eventually, _something’ll_ change. Whether or not it’ll tip the odds in his favour, nobody can tell – but Kraglin’ll be on the first opportunity he gets like a Kree warship on a Xandarian cruiser. 

Scowling to himself, Kraglin steeples his fingers over his nose, counts the groaning thrums of the ship’s engines, and waits. 

*** 

“-And you smell funny!” 

It is, perhaps, a tad hypocritical. When you’re part of a crew that rations drinkables on deepspace trans-system flights and has to be ready to engage in manic evasions and firefights at a moment’s notice, showering’s often the last thing on folks’ minds. Nothing like being caught trespassing in a Nova-patrolled quadrant and being called to battle stations in your birthday suit. 

Peter feels the need to qualify. “Like… like Jthuo-breath.” 

It’s a lie – the woman holding him actually smells oddly sweet under her coating of sweat and grime, like she might have misted her corpulent body in perfume at some point over the last year. But it’s the most offensive thing Peter can think of. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t get a raise out of the guard, beyond an errant twitch that ticks at the mobile side of her mouth. Peter scowls and kicks her tree-trunk legs. “And you’re _holding me too tight_!” He tries for wheedling, in the hopes that if she thinks his species is especially fragile she’ll loosen her grip enough for him to bolt. Her blue-sclera’d eyes swivel down to touch on his, just briefly. 

“Has that only just occurred to you?” she rumbles. “You haven’t complained until now.” Peter sags. _Foiled._

Zqo and Morlug and the rest might help him, if they weren’t backed up against the wall under the scope of the Hordesmen’s plasma guns (Peter purposefully doesn’t include Horuz in the mental tally of Ravager friendlies. He doesn’t want to tempt fate.) Although at the moment, they’re all _glaring_ at him, for some reason. That’s… odd. It’s not like them to be angry at him for disobeying orders, and if they honestly thought he’d stay put in that cramped little cupboard, they don’t know him at all. 

Peter shrugs, and puts it out of his mind. 

What about the other top Ravagers though? Kraglin… Kraglin would think up something clever that’d get Peter out (after at least the third try). And Yondu’d laugh and tell him to sort out his own messes. Then save his ass anyway and claim Peter owed him for the next half-millennia. 

Bastard. 

But Yondu and Kraglin aren’t here now, so Peter’s gonna have to get out of this one on his own. 

He steels himself, wriggling his foot to locate the knife he’s got shoved between his double-layer of socks. Present from Isla, after the last time Shorro’d caught him stealing extra rations (not Peter’s fault; he’s a growing boy). If he can just get to it, if he can distract the guard long enough… He can break free. He can grab her gun and shoot the whole bloody lot of them, like he’d meant to before, _blam-blam-blam_ , like one of the heroes from the action movies mom had let him watch sometimes when grandpa was out working and she couldn’t get out of bed. There’s no Yondu around to snarl at him now. With the absence of both him and the Hoard captain (wherever they’ve gone), Peter’s confidence has burgeoned. 

He can save them all. He can be a _hero_. 

The thought is giddying. Perhaps after this, they’ll actually call him Starlord! 

The Guard peers at him, surprised to catch the flicker of a grin. “Something funny?” she growls. 

“Your face,” is Peter’s immediate reply. There’s no harm in it. Morlug’s just as cut up and Thrabba’s got droop-eye and drool-lip after that electric pulse bomb went off early on Gvarg and gave him a stroke. But apparently, for the Horde girl, it’s still a bit of a sore point. 

“Why you little-“ she snarls, her grip turning from firm to bruising. She doesn’t look away from Peter, eerie blue eyes boring relentlessly into his own, but she directs her voice out to the rest of her crew. “If captain don’t want this one to play with, think we can get away with roughing him up instead?” 

“Don’t see why not,” says the tall one, smirking as he makes another sweep of the Ravagers with the muzzle of his rifle. “This lot sure as heck ain’t gonna stop us.” 

A quick study of the Ravagers’ faces proves him right. Peter tenses. They don’t look like they’d lend a hand even if there _weren’t_ a score of plasma bolts ready to be unloaded into their guts at the first sign of protest. Zqo’s got a rare smile on her face, and Horuz is nodding like he’d like some popcorn. And Peter has no idea _why_. 

He feels betrayed. Then abruptly, _furious_. 

“What the hell did I ever do to you?” he yells. The question’s directed more at the Ravagers than the Hordesmen, although the latter group doesn’t realise. 

“Annoyed us,” spits the guard holding him. 

“Why a Ravager crew’d even let a little pest like you tag along’s beyond me,” another sneers. “Unless they’re fattening you up.” That’s a mite too close to some of the threats Peter receives on a day-to-day basis. He kicks out again, uselessly, and pounds his fists back into the woman’s blubbery belly. The force of his impacts wobble away. 

“You don’t know anything!” he screams. “You’re just mean! And you smell! And I hate you!” They’re encircling him now, only two rifles left to menace the Ravagers now they’ve decided they’re not going to be a threat. _This is your chance,_ Peter thinks, desperate. _You’ve fooled them, congratulations, but now’s your chance!_

The Ravagers don’t move. Zqo’s smile grows a little wider. 

The tall Hordesman is standing in front of him. Peter’s eyes are about on level with his belly button – if he even has one of those. Slowly, like a lowering drawbridge, his torso swings down so they’re of a height. He’s got sharp teeth, Peter notices. Like Kraglin. But his grin is far more dangerous. “Oh, little Terran,” he says. “Whatever shall we do with you?” 

Then – to Peter’s horror – one skeletal hand fishes into his boot and draws out the knife. 

“Saw you lookin’ for this earlier,” he says in explanation, waggling it back and forth across Peter’s field of vision. 

Peter snaps and snarls; the guard holding him frowns. “He had that on him the whole time?” 

“Nearly ended up in your belly too, I’ll wager. It’s a big enough target.” Tall, thin and toothy reaches past Peter’s head to mock-pat the broad gut. 

“Fuck off,” the guard grumbles. Tall, thin and toothy laughs. 

“Yeah, yeah.” His attention turns back to the Terran. “Hey kid, you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But you can’t have honestly thought this would work. Face it. Ain’t nothing you can do but wait for our captain to be _finished_ with yours…” There’s something about the way he says that, a strange gleeful glimmer in his eyes that Peter doesn’t want to decipher. “-And pray we hand you over to the Nova corps rather than selling you on to a slaver. Terrans are planetbound species, y’know – protected from poaching by Intergalactic law.” The knife blade scrapes gently over Peter’s chin. Tall, thin and toothy’s eyes are slivered, as dark as his captor’s are blue. “You’ll fetch a good price. Given that you’re probably _trained_ already.” 

The guard’s hands squeeze his biceps. “Y’think? Thought the boss was just lookin’ to get a rise when he said…” 

Tall, thin and toothy shrugs. “Can’t think of any other reason why he’s been kept ‘round so long, can you? The untouched ones ain’t always worth more; there’s plenty’a creeps out there who’ll cough up a sum for a practiced young’un.” 

Peter’s only practiced at scrubbing the floor grating and taking apart guns to unclog the firing tubes. He can’t work out why that’d make him more valuable on the slave market, unless unpaid child-labour is back in, but he bristles anyway. “Might as well sell me on,” he says bravely. The knife’s nicking at his lip, but he keeps speaking anyway. “They pretty much use me as a slave already.” 

Tall, thin and toothy sniggers, juddering the blade. “Oh, I’ll _bet_ they do…” Blood trickles over Peter’s mouth. He can taste it more than he can feel it, coppery and rich. He grimaces when tall, thin and toothy brings the knife to his face and licks the red residue away. His face settles in bliss, eyes fluttering to a close. “Mm. And y’taste good too. Rare, _juicy_ …” Peter tries to work up enough saliva to spit at him, but can’t manage it. Tall, thin and toothy appraises him scornfully a moment longer, then raises his voice to the rest. “We’ll still be able to sell ‘im if the important tackle’s intact – so, anyone want a slice?” 

The knife hovering besides Peter’s cheek suddenly becomes a lot more intimidating. Peter frantically shies away, but is trapped by the Hordesgirl’s big blue arms. 

Crap. _Crap_. He really _is_ gonna get eaten… 

The last two guards exchange glances with each other, and the Ravager captives. Tempted by the offer, they sidle a little closer. That’s when the door slides open with an unobtrusive snick, and a sphere the size of Peter’s head bounces in. 

“Thanks for distractin’ em, boy!” Kraglin calls from the doorway. 

Tall, thin and toothy gapes at the ball. His eyes raise slowly to the Hordesgirl holding Peter captive. 

“Shit,” he says. 

And everything turns to hell.

*** 

“Where’s captain?” Kraglin asks Isla at one point, as they’re finishing off the obese blue guard. She just shakes her head. 

*** 

Kraglin asks again when it’s all over and the bodies of disembowelled Hordesmen lay scattered around like broken fenders in a junkyard. Morlug glances at the others. At Peter, where he’s been pushed into a corner and is being guarded by a stone-faced Horuz. She points at the box on the table, fingers shaking and eyes downcast, and begins to sign. 

*** 

Kraglin cusses. Kraglin cusses a lot: at Peter, at the Horde, at the other Ravagers. Mostly at Peter. Then he swipes the box off the table and smashes it into the nearest wall. Again, and again, and again. 

“I don’t think that’s helping,” says Isla. Kraglin lobs the box at her head instead. 

“Get it open,” he growls. “Now!” Isla hurries to the table, finding the spot with the most light, and fishes around in her dyed brown curls for a pin. She finds two, twists them open, and inserts the end of one into the locking mechanism’s mouth while the other’s stowed in her own for safe-keeping. 

“Not ‘lectrical,” she mumbles round it. “Din get knocked out by ee-urm-pee.” Because _that_ wasn’t already obvious. Of all the times for the Horde to go for antiquated locks… 

Kraglin’s feet are itching. He wants to sprint through the ship. He wants to bust down the door of Yondu’s cabin and gut that modded freak there and then. But he won’t. He _can’t_. There’s no EMP grenades left. Nothing that’d give them the edge other than Yondu’s arrow. Sure, Kraglin could blast in, all guns blazing. But what’s to stop Romago slitting Yondu’s throat the moment he opens the door? And anyway, he wouldn’t be able to kill the bastard without signing all of their death warrants. 

Kraglin knows he wouldn’t be able to resist that kind of temptation. Not if the story conveyed by Morlug’s trembling fingers is true. 

And so Kraglin burns white-hot with impotent rage. He fills his mind with strangling idiot Terrans and _eviscerating_ Romago, _slowly_ , along with all the other things he so desperately wants to do. 

How could this have happened? How could’ve Peter have been so stupid – how could they _all_ have been? How could they let Yondu…? 

Kraglin’s eyes are stinging. He finds a blank space on the wall to focus on, as he imagines torching the whole damn galaxy to ash. 

“Get it open,” he repeats hollowly. “Just get the damn box open.” Isla doesn’t need to see his expression to read the urgency behind the words. She nods, and five minutes later – five agonizing, awful minutes, measured in a silence broken only by the whinge of a Terran brat demanding to know what was going on – the lid pops. 

Kraglin’s there immediately, grabbing Isla’s wrist to stop her reaching in. “Don’t touch,” he warns. “Burn right through you.” Isla’s underlip makes a scared little tremble. 

“I don’t think it would,” she says. Kraglin looks down, sees dull metal unlit by radiation’s ruddy glow. He cusses some more. Then gingerly, trying not to jostle it any more than’s _absolutely_ necessary, he tips the arrow onto the tabletop. 

“Come on,” he mutters, breath steaming the sleek grey head. “Come on.” 

“What’s wrong?” Peter pipes. “Is it broken?” 

Never has Kraglin wanted to hit someone more in his life. Isla’s fingers fasten onto his shoulder and rub lightly. “Just give it a moment,” she says. Kraglin, hands shaking in his lap, does so. Then another moment. And another. It’s then, just as he’s about to give up and grab the nearest plasma rifle from a dead Hordesman’s hands, he sees it. 

A shudder of sparks. 

They dance up the arrow’s length, waltzing all the way from fletching to tip. 

Kraglin’s eyes widen. He bends over the slim weapon, nose almost in singeing-range, and prays to any deities that might have an ear open. “Come on. Come _on._ ” 

There’s a pulse. It’s more a ripple really, light pooling from the arrow in sporadic bursts. Slowly, tremulously, the arrow lifts into the air. It’s like watching a wounded butterfly trying to hover. The shaft shivers and yaws and lists dangerously to one side. Kraglin stares the whole time, eyes never straying as if it’s being kept up by the force of his gaze alone, fists clenched until his knuckles threaten to burst out the skin. 

“Come on,” he pleads. The arrow executes a shaky spin. Kraglin doesn’t need to dredge up his mental map of the ship to know it’s turning to Yondu’s cabin, a compass that points unerringly towards the captain. “You can do it,” he whispers. 

As if it hears him, the arrow stabilizes. Kraglin barely dares breathe. 

Then it’s off – zipping straight through the wall above Peter’s head – he shrieks – and leaving nothing but a smoking, red-ringed hole. The glow fades quickly, smouldering heat leaching to chilly air. But the afterimage is seared into Kraglin’s eyes. He refuses to blink it away. 

“Wait here,” he orders Horuz and the rest, rising unsteadily. Isla looks like she’d like to argue, but shuts her mouth when he shakes his head. “I’ll go and… I’ll go and…” He can’t put it into words, but he searches anyway, fingers sketching out embryonic shapes midair. Zqo’s the one to step forwards, in the end. 

“Hurry,” she tells him. 

Kraglin does. 

“What about me?” Peter calls, as the door whooshes shut. But Kraglin’s already running, and won’t stop for the goddam galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's very bitty. Hopefully it's still followable! As usual, I'd be super-grateful for any form of feedback. Unintelligible squealing, constructive criticism, you name it~ xxx


	7. He Had It Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yo. Super-short upload this time. You may notice I'm uploading these in very short succession - I'm a silly impatient dork who tends to write out most of a fic before uploading, and then can't be bothered to wait a week to gather reviews/kudos/whatnot between chapters. If you enjoy my writing, please drop me a comment at any point in any of my works! I really appreciate them, and they motivate me like nothing else. xxx

Romago looks at Yondu. Then he looks down at his hand – or more specifically, the arrow impaling wrist, teleporter, and bed sheets alike. It sizzles gently. There’s an ascorbic smell, melting metal and fried circuits. 

Then his face devolves into a snarl. “Udonta –“ 

Ain’t the snarl of a predator though. Not anymore. That right there’s the expression of a predator who just realised they’re prey. 

Yondu, who’d propelled himself to the edge of the bed in a dazed heap when his arrow came punching through the wall, pushes up onto his elbows and allows himself a smile. A big one. 

“I sure hope you’ve still got your sensor-net functionin’,” he says. Then licks his lips and whistles the arrow straight into Romago’s groin. 

By the time Kraglin slams into the doorpad, not expecting it to be locked from the inside, and bounces off again with an unmistakable string of cusses, Yondu’s seeing how small he can dice the remains. He sends his arrow on a last vicious pass through the remnants of the bastard’s skullplate, tremblingly toes off his boots and sets to sniffing out some clothes that’re still somewhat wearable. 

“Captain!” Kraglin screams, punching the controls. “Captain! Yondu!” 

He’ll break the fucking thing permanently, if he keeps at it like that. Yondu pulls a new pair of pants up, gasping, and decides against walking round the bed to the emergency med-cabinet in favour of rolling over it. Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. Thankfully, the box is set low – designed for when you ain’t exactly capable of standing. Yondu drags himself down from the mattress, past the bloody mess that had once been a Xandarian spleen, and rests heavily on the floor. 

Once he reaches his destination – a slow process, punctuated by his rasping breaths and Kraglin’s increasingly desperate shouts – he knocks the wall twice, and receives another drawerbox, this empty, which pops out into his waiting hands. 

“Request?” intones a mechanical voice. 

“Painkillers,” Yondu rasps. “Strong. Still gotta walk though. And think.” 

His mouth hurts, dammit. He whistles for his arrow, and strokes the glowing fletching while he waits for the medbox to process his handprint and sort the right dosage. Then, for Kraglin’s sake, who sounds like he’s started shooting off a fucking _plasma rifle_ or something idiotic like that, and who’ll only get himself nailed by a rebound if he carries on, the twit – “Activate vocal override on doorlock.” 

The door pings open. Kraglin, caught mid-pound, slithers through and falls on his face. 

He’s up immediately, face blotchy, eyes wild. He takes in the blood, blue and red alike, and the decorative mechanical sinews and joint components that are dangling from the cracks in the ceiling. His mouth cracks open in an awed ‘o’. 

Then he spots Yondu, collapsed by the medbox, and all but flings himself on top of him. 

“Captain!” 

“M’fine, m’fine.” Yondu shoves him off with a low growl. He’s focused on the medbox. Judging by the clunking noises from deep within the system, it’s almost done processing. Thank fuck. His back feels like it’s been put through a mangle. And he doesn’t even want to _think_ about his ass. His legs are twisted under him, immobile but still aching like a bitch. 

When the syringe finally – _finally_ – rattles into the open drawer, Yondu grabs it with all the eagerness of a junkie in withdrawal, and goes to jam it in his arm. Kraglin hisses and snatches it away, dodging Yondu’s clumsy, manic attempt at retaliation. 

“It’ll be faster if y’actually hit a vein – c’mon, let me help you. Captain, please.” 

And hell, if he wants to that badly… Yondu relents, breath wheezing. Offers the inside of his elbow. Kraglin feels around a moment. His fingers are strong, professional. Only shaking a little. Then he nods, jerkily, and squirts a dribble of liquid out the tip before sliding the needle in deep. He’s almost tender what with how slow he pushes the plunger down, and while Yondu knows it ain’t a wise idea to pump a whole dose of whatever-the-heck-this-is quick, he still wishes he’d hurry it up. Just so he don’t have to keep _looking_ at him. 

When all the liquid’s settled into his bloodstream and he no longer feels like he’s going to flop over like a ragdoll if he moves more than an inch in an hour, Yondu barges Kraglin back with rather more force than is necessary, and arduously finds his feet. 

Kraglin doesn’t seem to notice the unspoken dismissal; he bounces up and immediately starts flapping. 

“Uh, captain? Captain, I really don’t think y’should be moving… Painkillers don’t heal you up or nothing.” 

Like he doesn’t already know that. Yondu’s not dumb enough to go walkabout without doing a bit of an inventory on his new set of hurts; he’s fairly certain he ain’t gonna die from this, so long as nothing’s busted up inside. And that means that any longer spent sitting about is time wasted. 

A painkiller that don’t make him zone is only gonna last an hour at the most, after all. He’d like to be on the bridge and giving orders, preferably near a chair, before his legs give out again. They’ve still got a bunch of men planetside. There’s Ravagers confined to quarters who ain’t got the first idea of what’s happening – and of course, there’s the whole damn Horde fleet they’ve got to outrun. 

Captains ain’t afforded the luxury of conking out before a crisis’s over. Not if they want to stay captains for long. 

There’s not enough _time_ to explain all that though. And Yondu don’t have neither the patience, nor the trust in keeping a steady voice to try. He grits his teeth and starts for the door. 

“I’m goin’,” he says, rubbing the bleeding cracks in his lips. “You come or you stay. Your choice.” 

Kraglin looks at the filleted remnants of Horde captain. He shudders. Then he grabs Yondu’s discarded shirt and belt, complete with arrow sheath (all of which are only _mildly_ blood-spattered), and holds them out. 

Peace offering. 

Yondu’s not too convinced raising his arms is a good idea, what with the latticework of cuts across his back that he can no longer feel. But he figures none of them are deep enough to do much other than hurt like a bitch when his nerves start responding again. He takes the proffered clothing and wriggles them on. 

“Can y’clean this mess up?” he asks, avoiding looking at said mess as he does so. He cinches the belt in, doing the straps up a few notches looser than useful in an attempt at sparing his sliced lower back, and hooks the arrow into place at his side. Then, carelessly – “Though you’re gonna need a fresh pillow. Think I shredded it.” 

Kraglin blinks. “I’ll, uh, send someone in to deal with all this. I’m staying with you, I think.” 

Fucking sentiment. 

Yondu makes like he don’t give a shit, hoisting one shoulder higher than the other in an offhand dismissal. “Do what you fucking want,” he says, and swings his coat over his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end... Although there's a whole other fic that I might have written that follows on from this, because writing is excellent procrastination and I am a terrible student.


	8. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **TW for child abuse, and child abuse being made light of. Also for atypical reactions to rape (in the world of fanfiction, at least. I can reliably inform you that people in the real world aren't quite so predictable.) Hints of victim blaming too, I guess?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks~ Nearly there, one more chapter after this, and then a quick sequel! Hope y'all enjoy. xxx

“Can you… Can you just talk to me?” Kraglin says. 

He’s got that dumb look on his face, like he’s watching an M-ship blow from the galleon’s bridge. Desperate but helpless. And utterly pointless, because Yondu’s no breaking shuttle – and even if he were, ain’t like Kraglin’s googly-eyes would do much to salvage the situation. So he sets his shoulders, and goes back to watching the great expanse of space fold and compress around them. 

Crew’s on board. 

Moon’s evacuated. 

They stuck to the plan, letter for letter: sending the Hordeship away on its pre-allotted course stuffed to the brim with corpses, and their own ship into a mock death-spiral towards the pockmarked surface of the satellite. Worked like a fucking charm. All it’d taken was a quick rejig of the engines and a rough landing, a hasty headcount of all the Ravagers who’d been stranded, a shrug for any who hadn’t made it onboard in time, and the _Eclector_ was off – shooting into hyperspace before the Horde realised they’d been played for suckers. 

Sure, they’ll be pissed. Sure, they’ll be chasing. But there’s a whole fucking Ravager fleet waiting for them, and not even the Horde’s dumb enough to take all of ‘em on. Not when they’re down a captain. Heck, Yondu can practically _relax_ now. (Good thing too, as his painkillers have started to ebb.) Everything’s settled, everything’s normal – or so, it would be, if Kraglin would just quit _fretting_. Yondu tracks a swirling fold of spacetime until it twists out of existence. “What’s there t’talk about?” he asks. 

Kraglin’s mouth thins further. “Boss – “ 

“Don’t.” 

“Quit shuttin’ me out, I’m trying to help –“ 

“And doing a mighty shit job of it.” Yondu heaves a sigh, ignoring the ache that burrows up his spine. Just pain. Just physical. Bodies heal; he’s had worse. “Look, you wanna _help_ , ya can do what I damn ordered you to five minutes ago and go give Morlug a hand with the comms rig.” But Kraglin (after a glance at the yaka arrow, which remains silent and dim) shakes his head. 

“I ain’t leaving ya alone,” he states. Even crosses his scrawny arms, like that’ll make any damn difference. If Yondu wanted him out, he’d be out. Kraglin trying to be mulish would’ve been adorable or annoying on any other day – either way, worthy of a tease, a slap round the head, and a reiterated order that would actually be followed. 

Now though, his presence is… well, not exactly _comforting_. Because Yondu don’t need to be comforted. But it’s… familiar. Like a well-worn boot, or something. It’d be even better, if he’d actually shut up for five minutes. 

As if reading his thoughts, Kraglin wets his lips and makes to speak again. “Captain, look, what happened to ya –“ 

“Happened. Ain’t gonna happen again. What’s the point going on about it?” 

Kraglin’s hands make abortive passes through the air, like he’s trying to mime out the words in his head. “The point is… the point is…” He trails off. Comes back full force, marching over until Yondu’s view’s blocked by the scrawny bugger. He scowls the scowl of the righteous-worried-fuckbuddy right in his goddam face. “Damn it, Yondu. You got _raped_.” 

Yondu’s stomach clenches. “Don’t fucking say that!” he hisses, ramming Kraglin back against the curved glass. He fastens his sweating palm over his mouth like he’s trying to shove the words back in. “Fuck!” 

“What?” asks Kraglin, mumbling through his fingers. “S’true.” He’s still _looking_ at him with that blasted mixture of pity and frustration. Like he can see straight through Yondu’s façade – which is bullshit, because there _ain’t_ no fucking façade, fucking thank you very much. There ain’t no fucking façade because what Kraglin thinks happened _didn’t_ and even if it did, Yondu don’t need to _pretend_ not to be damaged by it when he fucking ain’t. 

His crew need a captain. They don’t need some sad sap who mopes around all depressed-like because he can’t take a bit of brutality in the bedroom. 

They respect Yondu – for now. Not because he’s scary as all hell when he’s gotta be. But because he’s _resilient_. He takes the punches and comes back swinging; he shakes off crashes and falls and mistakes and _keeps ploughing forwards_ , like a fucking juggernaut of blue skin and crooked teeth, laughing in the face of anything and everything that tries to keep him down. Why should this be any different? Crew’s reacting more than he is. And it’s a waste of sympathy all round. 

Kraglin though, as usual, has his own filter through which he sees the world. And he seems to have gotten into his thick skull that this is a world in which Yondu’s _weak_ enough to crumble under a bit of rough handling. The first mate stands stiff, spine so tense he’s practically vibrating. His head thunks off the thick glass between them and the void when Yondu shakes him, teeth bared, but it don’t shut him up for one moment. 

“I know what happened, boss,” he says, gripping Yondu’s sleeves. “I know what he did to ya –“ 

“He did nothing I didn’t know he was gonna do!” Yondu barks. “Ain’t fucking _rape_ –“ and damn, but the mere insinuation of the word being applied to _him_ is ridiculous enough to make him shudder, “ – if you’re the one who asks for it, now, is it?” 

Kraglin’s shaking his head. “Nah, captain, it weren’t like that…” But Yondu’s on a track now, and he’s not to be dissuaded. 

“What do _you_ know, about what it were like?” he inquires harshly. “You weren’t there!” Which is all kinds of uncalled for, because heck, _he_ was the one to order Kraglin below decks in search of the EMP grenades. Which, looking back, was definitely for the best. But if Kraglin’s gonna try and burrow through his defences… Well, Yondu’s gonna give him tit for fucking tat. The flash of hurt over his first mate’s face feels as good as he was expecting. 

Yondu grins nastily, and prods Kraglin’s bony sternum hard enough to win a wince. “Y’know what? It weren’t even that bad. He’s better in the sack than you are, at any rate. Actually _felt_ it when he fucked me.” He’s fishing for a reaction, and he gets one – but it’s not the anger he was hoping for. 

“Don’t,” says Kraglin quietly. His grip on Yondu’s sleeve becomes more insistent, and he gazes into his eyes like he’s searching his soul. Probably won’t like what he finds. Heck, Yondu’s not even sure if he’s got one anymore. But he looks anyway. “Don’t talk like that. You ain’t gonna make me mad at you. Not over something like this.” 

Kraglin might be an idiot, but sometimes he’s too damn smart for his own good. 

Yondu pins him against the glass a second longer. Then he snorts like he couldn’t care less, and releases him. Stomps over to his chair and throws himself on it – regretting that pretty darn quick, because fucking _ow,_ fuck it all to hell. But he swallows the groan. Kraglin don’t need more encouragement. “You can think whatever you like,” he says eventually. “Just don’t go throwing the wrong words around. Not in front of the boys.” 

Kraglin’s nod is subdued, but not defeated. “Yes sir. But… boss, I ain’t just gonna _forget_ …” 

Yondu could bang his head on the floor. “Why not?” That comes out a bit petulant for his liking. He covers himself with an iron-melting glare, hands clenching on the chair grips like he’s strangling them. “I already have.” Kraglin takes a step closer. Moving tentative but sure, like he’s on unstable ground but determined to reach the other side. 

“You’re lying,” he says. 

“And you’re a fucking pest, but I don’t call you out on it.” Yondu releases the chair arms, letting the padded plastic regain its shape. He strokes his arrow’s fletching where it lays across his lap; radiation hums beneath his fingertips. “Look. If I say it weren’t what you wanna call it, it weren’t. And next time I tell you to get out, you git.” 

Kraglin sighs, but knows better than to argue when Yondu’s laying down the law. “Yessir.” 

“Hmph.” Yondu pretends to be engrossed rubbing crusted blood from the arrowtip. Damn thing needs a bath. So does he – he’s sticky and uncomfortable as well as sore beneath his clothes, but the thought of trekking down to the washracks and scrubbing some bastard’s jizz out his ass while the other men watch is absurd enough to be funny. What’s a little more discomfort? He’ll hold til the night shift. Kraglin’s still hovering in his peripherals, looking worryingly like he’s considering what to say next. He oughta do something about that. Idle hands make minds that’ve too much time to mull crap over and come to their own stupid conclusions. If he doesn’t keep the man busy, he’ll be fending off therapy sessions all damn night. And while he might like Kraglin’s company (for some unfathomable reason), his infernal whinging’s almost as irritating as Peter’s. 

Peter. 

Yondu’s fingers freeze on the arrow tip. 

“Shit.” 

Kraglin’s there instantly; of course he is, the sentimental idiot. Looking _worried_ and all. “You alright boss? I mean, not _alright_ , after everything, but –“ 

Yondu shuts him up with an upheld hand. “Where’s the brat?” 

Kraglin’s expression instantly shutters. “He shoulda stayed put like you told him, boss.” 

“ _Shit_.” Because Kraglin’s marginally more tolerant of the Terran brat than the majority of the crew – mostly because Peter’s a gutsy little idjit with more cunning than brains who’ll go round tying bootlaces together and slipping the knots on the boys’ hammocks when he’s bored, and he probably reminds Kraglin of himself when he was that age – not that the finicky bastard would ever admit it. If Kraglin’s pissed at Peter, Yondu can only imagine what the rest of ‘em will be thinking. 

He has a sudden image, startling in its clarity, of Peter being slow-roasted over one of Shorro’s open ovens. 

The growing ache between Yondu’s brows is hardly his biggest worry when he can’t walk without feeling like his innards are gonna come sliding out, but he pinches it anyway it the vain hope it’ll abate. “Ah, let’s go rescue him before Horuz starts selecting prime cuts.” 

Kraglin scoffs. “Dumbass gets what’s coming to him, boss, if you ask me.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t.” Yondu braces himself on the chairarms, gingerly inches upwards. _Ow._ He refuses to watch Kraglin watching him, focussing instead on the array of colourful knickknacks he’s got stacked along the panel edge. 

The latest’s a spindly insect made from red glass. It’s too delicate for life on the bridge. But Peter’d been the one to acquire it; he’d pickpocketed it at the last port – pretended he’d lifted it by accident when he’d been going for a wallet, almost got caught in the process, and tossed it at Yondu’s head when they made it back to ship and he’d put the boy on bog-scrubbing duty to pay his penance. It’s survived the rough landing on the moon – but Yondu can see the cobwebs of cracks leaking out from its joints. Next time they dock hard, it’ll shatter. There’s no point in letting pretty things sit gathering dust in a cupboard somewhere just because they’re fragile though. No point expending time and energy gluing it together neither. He’ll just have to enjoy it while it lasts. 

Ain’t that a maxim to live by? 

“You alright?” asks Kraglin again, softly, from his side. How he got in so close without Yondu noticing, he doesn’t know – must be more tired than he thought. One bony hand hovers against Yondu’s elbow, almost touching, but not quite. The captain takes vindictive delight in slapping it away. 

“You a broken record?” he parrots back in the same tone. Kraglin – thank whatever deities you subscribe to – rolls his eyes, and for a moment everything’s normal and right in the universe. 

“Aw, just stay put, would you, boss?” 

Yondu’s about to huff that he’s not old enough to be benched just yet, but there’s something in the fond way Kraglin’s looking at him that makes him reconsider. That and the fact that the _thought_ of stomping through the _Eclector_ ’s corridors like he hasn’t just taken a massive metal-ridged cock is... well, unthinkable, really. Still, there’s a job to be done. He looks at Kraglin expectantly, until the first mate throws up his hands defeat and starts for the door. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll fetch your bloody kid.” 

“Ain’t _my_ bloody anything,” Yondu calls after him. 

“Sure, boss. Whatever you say.” 

*** 

Peter’s grabbed by the scruff of his collar, lifted from his seat in the corner, and deposited gracelessly at Kraglin’s feet. 

“There,” says Horuz. He looks murderous. But Horuz looks murderous any time he’s not looking hung over, hungry or stupid, and as Kraglin can’t see any signs of serious injury on the boy he supposes it’s nothing to worry about. In fact, the crew have showed remarkable restraint. The only wounds Peter’s sporting besides the bruises on his wrist from where he was grabbed by the Hordesmen guard are a new bust lip and the beginnings of a black eye. A quick glance-over reassures Kraglin that neither’s likely to cause permanent damage. He should be a bit more thorough in his inspection – would be, any other day. But right now it’s all he can do to resist giving the brat a kick of his own. 

His fault. It’s his damn fault. 

They had a _plan_ , dammit. A good goddam plan. Would’ve run like clockwork – but this kid had to get in the way. 

Now Kraglin don’t mind Peter. Most of the time. Heck, occasionally he even _likes_ him. But the boy should know better than to disobey captain’s orders when there’s enemies on board. Captain says stay, you stay. When Peter ignored that order, it wasn’t just himself he’d jeopardized. It was every bloody man, woman and being on board. And it’d been Yondu who’d taken the fall. 

Kraglin’s not sure he can forgive the Terran for that. No matter what Yondu says. 

So when Peter scrambles to his feet, all snotty nose and angry, trembling mouth, Kraglin keeps his face cold and nods back the way he came. “Keep up,” is all he says. Peter swipes a dirty hand over his leaking nostrils, bringing away slime and blood. 

“What crawled up your ass and died?” 

Mutinous and scrappy, looking for a fight. When Kraglin keeps walking though, he looks between him and Horuz – who glowers in a way that screams _you’re on tonight’s menu_ – and decides it’s in his best interests to follow. The slap of his oversized boots rings loud along dim-lit corridors. Kraglin strides ahead, not bothering to shorten his paces, and Peter has to trot to keep up. 

“Where’re we going?” he asks, when it becomes clear the first mate isn’t in the mood for small-talk. “Why’s it so dark everywhere? Is something broken?” 

“Naw,” says Kraglin shortly. “But I can change that. Starting with yer neck.” Peter stumbles, catches himself on a convenient jutting doorframe before he falls. 

_Crap_. Kraglin’s pissed. 

“Whaddid I do?” he implores of the leather jacket’s retreating back. There’s no answer. Just the rhythmic drum of boot on metal. It settles in Peter’s mind like a war tattoo, leading him on to battle and blood. He shivers. Peers behind, at the blue shadows that encroach over the wallpipes and stretch dark fingers from every crevasse. Shivers some more, and runs to catch up. “Wait – Kraglin, wait. Where are we going?” 

“Bridge.” 

“To see Yondu?” 

“Right.” 

Peter’s sense of portending doom burgeons. His shoulders hunch in their too-big coat. “He mad?” he mutters. Kraglin’s gaze is fixed on the corridor ahead. 

“No,” comes the sour reply. “But he oughta be.” 

Whatever _that_ means. However, for now the reassurance that one person on this ship doesn’t want him stuffed, roasted, and served with an apple in his gob is enough for Peter. Even if that one person is the biggest damn bastard of the lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment/review! I really appreciate it - they cheer me up and motivate me. Hope the mid-scene perspective shifts aren't too confusing. Also, if you note any editing/plotting errors, as I'm uploading this while half asleep, do let me know! XXX


	9. Moving Forwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter of this series! Keep your eyes peeled for the next one~ xxx And please, please, drop me a comment if you've read and enjoyed. I feed on them.

The biggest damn bastard of the lot is waiting for them when Kraglin ushers him onto the Bridge, punching the panel to make the door crash shut rather than click. Peter jumps. That sounded worryingly… final. Still, he knows that so long as he’s part of this crew, it’s not Kraglin’s wrath he has to worry about. With that in mind, he lifts his chin, displaying the swollen lip taking up half his face, and marches over to greet his captain. 

Yondu’s lounged out in his chair like a cat in sunlight. Peter feels a short surge of annoyance. It’s not like they’ve just been attacked by pirates, or anything. Not like there’s repairs to be made, crew to be calmed, revenge to be plotted. Heck, he’s spent the last hour being snarled at, shoved around and smacked by a bunch of dickheads who won’t even _tell him what he did wrong._ It’s all gone to pot on deck; so of course, it’s the perfect time for Yondu to slack off. 

“You’ve looked better,” he greets him, hands on hips. It’s true. He and Romago must’ve had a fight. Judging by the lack of Horde captain, Yondu won. But not by much. Yondu pushes himself up a little straighter – did he just wince? – and raises his blood-crusted eyebrows. 

“You can talk, boy.” He’s got a point. Peter’s hand comes up on automatic to rub the puffy skin circling his left eye socket. Yondu’s grin is jaggedly genuine. “Gonna have a beauty of a shiner tomorrow.” 

Peter sniffs angrily. “You can thank Horuz for that.” There’s a split-second where the grin fades. Yondu almost looks surprised – something tingles in response, deep in Peer’s gut; that pathetic little desperation that still latches onto anyone who shows him concern. Was he… _worried_? About him? 

Of course, Yondu spoils it at the first opportunity. He props his chin up on his fist and turns to watch the stars. “Thought he’d have broken your nose at least.” 

…And there that little nugget of hope goes. 

_A-hole_. 

“Yeah thanks,” says Peter. “I’m fine, by the way.” 

Kraglin’s standing close by. Peter, used to being the butt of all jokes passed between captain and first mate, is expecting a mocking laugh, a ruffle of sharp grubby nails through his hair. Instead, he hears Kraglin’s teeth grit. A hand clamps down on his shoulder like a vice. It’s too hard, too tight, squeezing until the bones creak; Peter wriggles like an eel but can’t escape, and his face screws up in pain. 

“You should be damn _grateful_ , that’s what you should –“ 

“Kraglin.” 

Only Yondu can sound that damn formidable, arrow in its sheath and face as beaten as ground beef. He leans back, rolling his head over the back of his chair like a king getting comfy on his throne. The red glare petrifies them both. Peter _feels_ Kraglin deflate. He lets his own lungful of air release too. For a moment, he thinks that’ll be that; that Kraglin’ll posture and mutter and leave him be – but heaven forbid life be that kind to Peter Jason Quill. 

There’s a short pause. Then the fingers dig into Peter’s collarbone again, wringing out another yelp. When Kraglin speaks, it’s clipped and blunt, each word angled to pierce right through him. 

“Boss. It were his damn fault.” 

He’s shaking – literally shaking – with some dark fury that Peter can’t understand. His fault? What does that _mean?_ Frustration and fear compound into fury – but before Peter can retaliate Yondu’s speaking again, eyes narrowed to bleeding-red knife-slits. “That ain’t for you to decide.” 

“Yeah,” Peter pipes, struggling in the grip like a hooked worm. “You’re just mad at me because you weren’t there!” 

On the list of stupid things to say, that probably clocks in around number three. After accusing Yondu of lazing round the bridge when there might well be enemy ships in pursuit, and pointing out that they’re _both_ idiots for flying them into an ambush to begin with. Yondu looks like he’s not sure if he wants to laugh or whistle. Peter doesn’t know what Kraglin’s thinking, but the sudden release of his shoulder can’t be anything good. 

“The fuck did you just say to me.” 

When you’re the smallest and weakest member of a crew of space buccaneers, you get pretty damn good at reading people. When you’re also the youngest, this comes hand in hand with a complete inability to apply this reading to any common sense. Right now, all Peter’s getting is that he’s hit the nail on the head. 

“I’m right, aren’t I!” he crows. He dances forwards, turning on the first mate with a jig of the feet. “I’m right! I’m right, and you know it!” 

Behind him, Yondu’s eyes widen, and he struggles to his feet. “Kraglin!” 

That tone of voice is enough to leech the elation right out of Peter. It drains from his toes, out into the cold dead metal hull. Looking at Kraglin’s face, tight and white with unbridled _rage_ , Peter realises that maybe, possibly, he has misjudged. But he’s still certain in his conclusion. And, with a fortitude only nine-year-old bravado can muster, he hoists his chin and looks Kraglin square in the eye. 

“I’m still right,” he says. 

Yondu’s forearms are shaking with the effort of holding himself up. There’s sweat dribbling over the slices on his cheek, and he tries to step forwards only to wince and think better of it. “Kraglin, you better not –“ 

“I ain’t doing nothing to him,” Kraglin says. He’s reassuring Yondu, but his eyes are on Peter. They’re almost black, pitted in wells of shadow and colder than the abyss stretching out beyond the observation glass. “He ain’t worth it.” Then, before Peter can start sputtering in indignation – “And he’s right. Like he says.” 

“Kraglin,” says Yondu again. Usually Peter would make a joke about how Yondu’s getting senile, what with all this repeating himself. But even he’s wise enough to know that now’s not the time. “It weren’t your fault neither. Don’t go blamin’ yourself for this. That’s an order.” He sounds all serious and captain-y and everything. 

But then his leg trembles. 

Peter sees pain flash across his face, and for a horrifying moment thinks he’s going to fold back on the chair. Kraglin’s _there_ though, a scaffold of lanky limbs that shoots past Peter in a blur of red leather, black tattoos, sweat and oil-grime. Ignoring the Terran completely, he wraps his arms around Yondu and somehow manages to keep them both upright – though his knees wobble and he has to lean back for counterbalance. 

“I shoulda been with you,” Kraglin says, once they’re no longer in danger of collapsing to the deck. Yondu shakes his head. He returns the embrace stiffly, looping an elbow around Kraglin’s bony nape and keeping him close. 

Blegh. 

“I should’ve _been there_ ,” Kraglin repeats, firmer this time. His voice is a breathless mutter against his captain’s temple. Yondu’s one-armed hold tightens, blue fingers clutching the leather between Kraglin’s shoulder-blades. It’s a movement too imperceptible to notice, unless you were looking for it. 

Peter, who is, pulls a face. Gross old men. 

“Then what would you have done?” Yondu asks, voice as rough as Peter’s ever heard it. “Offered yourself up instead?” Kraglin’s nodding before he’s finished speaking. Yondu halts him with a violent snarl. “No. _No_. Don’t go getting dumb ideas, lad. I’d rather die.” 

Kraglin can’t seem to compute that statement. Peter can’t either, but that’s more for lack of understanding and a vague disgust at all things romantic. The first mate boggles at Yondu, mouth opening and closing like one of them little fishies in the aquarium Peter’s grandpa had taken him to visit when mom had first gotten sick: like if Yondu taps the glass too hard, he’ll start and flee away. But when his eyes skim back to Peter, the whirlwind of emotions within them settles, coalescing into cold hard hatred. “But… but you’d do _that_ … for him? He ain’t fucking worth it. _I_ ain’t neither. Damn it, boss. No one is.” 

Peter could scream. 

He hasn’t done anything. He knows he hasn’t done anything! But for some reason, Horuz and the rest are all looking to blame _him_ for this mess – like he’s got anything to do with those ugly, stupid _Hordesmen_ setting up their stupid ambush! It’s typical. Really, it is. When he’s being good and behaving, it’s all _Peter the invisible kid_ , relegated to grunt work and lookout duty when he’s sure he can blast plasma pistols off with the rest of them, if only they’d let him try. But as soon as anything goes wrong… 

He supposes he should be used to be getting the blame by now. But there’s still something about _Kraglin_ being mad, Kraglin who laughs at his pranks and taught him how to dip pockets without getting caught – well, without getting caught _much_ … 

Peter won’t admit that his anger hurts more than the rest though. Not in a thousand years. They want to hate him? He can bloody well return the favour. 

“He’s worth it,” Yondu says, pulling away from his first mate and looking him sternly in the eye. He lets the silence drag an ominous moment. Then – “We gonna have a problem with that?” 

Kraglin looks like he’d very much like to say yes. “Yondu, this ain’t right, you can’t just _ignore_ his part in this –“ 

Peter’s nails carve his palms. Kraglin’s as mean and stupid as the rest of them. He even opens his mouth to tell him so – but Yondu only has eyes for his first mate in that moment, and he interrupts Peter before he’s begun. “I do as I fucking well want.” The words are gravelled: somewhere between earnest and furious. “Don’t ya dare go blaming him – y’hear me, Krags? Not the boy’s fault. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong damn time.” 

“If he weren’t dumb enough to leave the cupboard in the first place…” Kraglin begins. He’s sent stumbling by an open-handed smack to the ear. 

“No! Still not yer place.” 

Teeth bared, eyes tight with pain, Yondu grabs Kraglin by his skinny bicep and reels him in chest-to-chest. The Hraxian works his jaw from side to side, probing his tenderised cranium like he’s worried it’s gone concave. Perhaps that was a wee bit much. But heck, Yondu reckons he can be excused for being a _bit on edge_ right now. Besides, this is something that needs to be said. 

He leans in and delivers the rest of his speech up in Kraglin’s ugly mug, as if proximity’s gonna make the words more likely to sink through it. “Listen now, cause I’m only sayin’ this once. What happened in there, it were my choice, it were my decision. He gave me an option. I took it, and that ain’t on no one but me –“ 

And Peter doesn’t want to hear another word. 

Because there Yondu goes again. Defending him. Pretending to act the _hero_ when everyone knows he’s really just a slimy, gross old pirate who gets his kicks from threatening to eat people. 

Why’d he have to interfere? Couldn’t he have left him to it? Let the captain do whatever he’d been planning – make him into a Terran pastry, or whatever? Heck, Yondu’s the one always nagging Peter to grow up. Saying he ought to act like a _man_. He just never gives him a chance to do so. Honestly. There was Peter, about to face pain with a smile, to take his punishment and come out laughing like a _real_ Ravager… And Yondu stole it all, right out from under him. 

Stopping him from proving himself. Getting in his way. 

Like he always does, the old git. This is his chance – his chance to speak up, to change things himself, rather than just relying on the captain to do it for him. He’s got to take it. He’s _got_ to. 

“It wasn’t my fault!” he interrupts. His words are hard, plosive little bursts of fury. Yondu’s mouth snaps shut, and he and Kraglin alike both turn to stare. “I didn’t ask him to do _anything_ for me. He just did it anyway! Stop blaming me for everything! If he likes getting beaten up, I don’t see how it’s _my_ problem!” 

He’s almost shouting by the last words, and has to blink several times, terrified that he might start to cry. 

For a moment, he thinks Kraglin’s about to storm over and wring his neck. Yondu stops him though. Just a squeeze of the arm. That’s all it takes. When he looks at Peter, it’s like he’d forgotten he was in the room – Peter sniffles angrily, because it’s not like they’ve been _talking about him_ or anything. Geez. 

Yondu waits until the deadly tension’s drained from Kraglin’s muscles. Then he scrapes a tired hand through his blood-stained stubble and groans. 

“Boy, you gotta learn to keep your mouth shut.” 

“Shouldn’t have given me a translator chip if you didn’t want me to talk!” 

“Believe me, I regret it every day.” 

Peter’s face crumples. The fists he’s holding clenched by his sides tremble. “I just… I don’t _understand_ ,” he says, in a small voice. “Why’s everyone blaming me?” Kraglin looks like he’s about to give him the alphabetical list, until Yondu smacks him in the arm. Peter continues, unimpeded. “We escaped, didn’t we?” he asks, voice wavering as it raises in pitch. “We got away, the Horde guys are all dead, we picked up everyone who was stranded on the moon... Your plan _worked_! So why’s everyone so angry?” 

Yondu shrugs. He’s not one for wrapping brats in deepspace insulation so they can hide away when the universe gets too ugly for their precious little peepers. But there’s enough people who know about this mess already. No point adding one more to his blackmail list – and a loud-mouthed little Terran who doesn’t know how to follow orders, at that. 

“Per’aps you’ll work it out one day,” he says. 

*** 

Peter does. Eventually. 

The revelation occurs when he’s lounging on his bunk, tossing and catching a plastic figurine he’d picked from some rich baby’s perambulator while they were smiling and waving to the crowds in the wake of the Dark Aster’s spectacular plummet. It’s got a small round body and stubby limbs, too big to be swallowed and too smooth to be chewed apart. The star-shaped specks on its belly twinkle prettily when it catches the light. S’just the right size to sit on an M-ship’s dashboard. 

Heaven knows why he picked it up. 

Peter throws it with both hands, catches it in one, throws it with one hand, catches it in both. This continues for a while, alternating between right and left. _Hooked on a Feeling_ chants softly in the background, the headset looped over the back of his chair. He’s listened to all the tracks on Awesome Mix Vol. 2 by now. They’re magical when they pour into his ears; synesthetic, colours and shapes and smells and sounds. Chocolate chip muffins cooling on the window rack. Sunlight and dry mown grass in the summer. A waft of cool jasmine perfume. The far-off imprint of a thin woman with a shaved head, wrapped in a geometric-patterned skirt, who had helped him tear up the bread crusts when they fed the pigeons in the park. 

It’s intense. Incredible, but intense. Peter needs to return to something familiar, if only for a while, before he can listen to them again. And so he turns his mind to the familiar too. 

Dirty red leather and rust. Greasy mohawks, slaps on the back, whistling and glaring and snaggletoothed grins. 

His Ravager coats still hang off the end of his bunk. One trenchcoat, one jacket. Both as scarred and patched as he is. The others have gotten rid of their leathers by now, exchanging them gradually for dresses picked up at the Xandarian lowtown market – ‘half price, only for our saviours!’ – miniature custom-made jumpsuits courtesy of the ever-obliging Corpsman Dey, pants spun from strong weave spider-silk (‘they feel so _breathable,_ ’ Drax had been eager to explain). But Peter can’t quite bring himself to lose that chapter of his life forever. 

Anyway, red suits him. 

He smirks, clapping the toy between his hands. Oh, he doesn’t doubt they’ll be seeing the Ravagers again. Not after a certain stone was swapped out for a certain troll doll. Yondu’s not the type to let that slide, not even if he sees the funny side; stopping a potentially catastrophic power from falling into the hands of a supra-galactic maniac doesn’t count for much when you’ve cheated a Ravager of their paycheque. Peter wonders how far he’ll get this time. Still, at least the bastard actually let him handle _this_ megalomaniac himself. 

…Which gets him thinking. 

Which gets him remembering. 

Which gets him _thinking_ again… 

And this time, it doesn’t take the measly twelve percent of the story he’d been privy to, for him to figure the rest of it out. 

The Horde captain’s frigid leer. The thread of metal braided through his tongue. That uncomfortable twist in Peter’s guts that pulled tight when the modded man _smiled_ … Then Yondu, stepping forwards and casually offering himself up. As if it hadn’t meant a damn thing. 

The toy slips from Peter’s lax fingers and smacks him in the face. He doesn’t notice. 

“Fuck.” 

Well. That explains why Kraglin hardly talked to him for a year. And why he got partnered with Horuz on that job on Ergonar, the one which’d almost ended in him being used for target practice. Peter sweeps his tongue over the roof of his dry mouth. “Fuck,” he says again, because he can’t think of much else. And really, what more _is_ there to say? 

Time passed. 

Kraglin’s cold glower waned to the occasional snigger at his expense, then a squeeze on the shoulder when he lost a partner out by Ba-Banis, then a glass of whiskey and a tight, elated hug when Peter, still horrifically underage, piloted his first M-ship successfully back to dock. Horuz and Zqo never stopped giving him the stink-eye; but then again, they’d been doing that a long time before and would’ve been a long time after regardless. The day-to-day battle of Ravager existence meant grudges didn’t last long. Those who held them had a nasty tendency to wind up face-down in the field. Once Peter had proved he was useful rather than music-spouting deadweight, any and all past transgressions had been forgotten. 

And Yondu… Yondu had never mentioned it again. None of it. Not the Horde, not the ambush, not the captain or whatever _things_ the captain might have done to him in his own damn cabin. Peter suspects that that might be a hint. Yondu doesn’t give those freely. But when he does, it’s always in a person’s best interests to listen. 

Slowly, Peter rolls onto his side. He fishes the toy out from where it’s rolled under his pillow. He rubs its bulbous thorax between his palms. 

Then he tosses it, catches it, and tosses it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a blast. Hope you've enjoyed! I'd love to hear what you thought, so do tell me in the comments section below.


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